Flashes of Panic

One of the strategies I’ve been following to get work done during the time Iz is pestering me for dinner, once a week, has been retreating to one of our local wifi-equipped coffee shops, picking up a beverage, and working there until it’s time to return for kitty-dinner time.

Maybe the second time I did this, I realized that I was ripping through a pretty good quantity of work for the time I was there. Some of this is simply due to a feeling of having people looking over my shoulder, but I’m also playing with the idea that a little of this is also due to a stimulant effect of the beverage.

I’m reluctant to embrace this idea for a few reasons. One is that I usually get the least coffee on the menu, a mocha or vanilla latte, and I’m reluctant to believe that they have that much more caffeine (or sugar—I don’t add any) than my morning tea, which doesn’t appear to have much stimulant effect at all beyond quieting my craving for it.

The bigger one is that I don’t want to become one of those people whose ability to function becomes dependent on the regular application of $4 beverage. (Alcoholism, ounce for ounce, is cheaper.)

Given that I still haven’t developed a tolerance for the beverage in its pure state—my current ideal coffee is still the Japanese iced variety which is closer to coffee-flavored milk than coffee—I guess I don’t have too much to worry about just yet. But the path is there in front of me.