Toxic cup

First, there’s the wild palpitation. The heart, suddenly agitated and nervy, throbs to the beat of inaudibly deafening bass drums. Thud. Thud. Then, comes the involuntary convulsion of the sweat-drenched hands chased, not too long, by the spontaneous illogical rambling that would put even wasted Britney to shame.

As pathetic as it may sound in these days of Starbucks and Coffee Blends, when it comes to caffeine, I sadly have the threshold of a four-year-old on a lactose diet.

For someone conceived in a womb where dark liquids of espresso had long displaced the placenta, it baffles me to my wits why every inch of my body repulses the slightest hint of caffeine when my mom’s bottle of Pierre is a cup of Arabica blend.

Whether this was a genetic fluke or a matter of unique biological makeup, this 90-pound body is not built to survive a cup of dark espresso. Sure I could give it a shot to validate my contention, but my brother would probably have me write off my last will and testament before the first sip, certain of my forthcoming death by caffeine.

“Please leave me your Toshiba laptop before caffeine poisons you to the core,” would most likely be his ruthless joke.

In the gossip circles, I may go down as the only “diva” who orders a cup of steamed milk during coffee breaks, but this is not to ultimately say that I have never attempted to sip a cup of rich, freshly-brewed coffee at least once in my pitiable lifetime. I have, but each valiant attempt has left me with nothing more than a momentary case of cluttering – slurred speech, distorted syntax, erratic rhythm.

In medical-speak, this verbal mumbling and rambling may easily qualify as logorrhoea. In diva-terms, it’s simply Paris-Hilton-on-novocaine. Since then, I had better sense to steer clear from a cup of dripping, brewed coffee.

But drowning curiosity has not been easy, especially when everyone you know worships Starbucks like a religion.

Our illustrator, Janice, is one of the many. She could be in her death bed and her final wish would probably be triple shots of espresso intravenously fed into her.

It was she who introduced me to the world of French press, espresso doppio and café macchiato. At first, I was a reluctant companion who wasn’t at all contributing to the Starbucks cash register, but was unremorsefully swaggering her way to the free condiments corner with a free mini cup of unlimited supply of non-fat milk.

Soon though, Janice threw in her pitch for the coveted Starbucks planner. Still, I was unaffected, believing that a leather-bound planner would hardly be enough to make me a Starbucks convert. But her overzealous devotion to her daily gourmet coffee fix and tiny star stamp in exchange for a limited-edition planner was infectious.

To earn my Starbucks stamp, those regular Starbucks visits made me discover a different addiction – hot chocolate.

I still recall my first queue among caffeine-starved Starbucks regulars. I was literally attacked, like a witness in a court room, by a barrage of questions.

“What would you like for today, maam? Something hot or cold?” asked the perennially perky Starbucks barista.

“Something hot please,” I replied with the same amount of perkiness.

“Coffee, choco or tea?” he shot back.

“Chocolate would be nice,” I retorted.

“Classic or signature?”

A long pause ensued while weighing my options. “Signature, I guess,” I finally decided.

“And what size would that be? Short, medium or tall?”

I was ready to burst into tears and beg, “Please, I just want a nice cup of hot choco!”

Never mind that I may have accumulated an additional 167 calories each day I indulged myself at Starbucks. Who could complain when it was a sinfully delightful way to earn my first Starbucks planner?

But don’t be fooled. Though I may now be spotted at the coffee place with a sleeved cup on one hand, I remain decaffeinated. Coffee, for this caffeine-deprived soul, continues to be an unwelcome concoction in my discriminating system. It will still be this expensive “toxin” that momentarily short-circuits logic and leaves me more jittery than a slow-as-snail soccer mom driving on a freeway.

And yes, pardon me if I’m rambling again like an incoherent Britney. It’s the lousy three-in-one decaf kicking in.