I’m in love – obsessed really.

It’s Juan Valdez, the attractive man known for leading a donkey laden with burlap bags of coffee beans through the hills of Columbia.

God, how I want those beans.

I find myself making up lame excuses, dressing up in my whole-latte jeans, then sneaking out and grabbing a good, old fashion jumbo mug of java, after claiming to be “off the sauce” or “almost-stimulant-free”.

It’s the thrill, the excitement of that initial buzz that keeps me going back for more. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop myself.

Oh Juan, why?

Afterwards I’m nervous, shaky and my heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest, but I find myself already planning my next dark roast adventure.

Hello. My name’s Viv and I’m addicted to caffeine.

It could be worse. I could be addicted to sex or drugs or alcohol or sniffing new crayons or the National Enquirer.

Oh wait, I am addicted to the National Enquirer. Of course, it’s just for the crossword puzzles. And if you buy that, my brother browses Penthouse for the highbrow political commentary.

The trouble is I don’t really notice when I cross that defining line and transform from a lethargic and pulse-free aging female to a Jump Jiving an’ Wailing junkie who gets light-headed from the flapping sound of her own rapidly blinking eyelids.

That’s the point when I become, well … my friends call it “edgy.” My enemies call it worse.

I decided to go cold turkey and just quit caffeine. It was the longest eight hours of my life.

6 a.m.: Got out of bed, sat on the couch, and fell back to sleep while putting on flip-flops.

7 a.m.: Drug myself into the bathroom and fell into coma-like stupor on the rug. Dreamed I was on a Folgers Cruise with Juan in the Isle of Maxwell.

8 a.m.: Came to with a RAGING, POUNDING headache. Decided to try to sleep it off.

8:01 a.m. – 1 p.m.: Slept.

1 p.m.: Had to do a load of laundry. Nodded off until my head hit the spin cycle. Maybe just half a cup? To take the edge off.

2 p.m.: Feel a little better after downing 4 ounces of strong brew. Read the National Enquirer with startling zoom shots of “Celebrity Cellulite in Curacao.” There was a sidebar recipe for a body scrub of coffee grounds and avocados that was guaranteed to reduce the appearance of cellulite. Hmmm … it had to work even better from the inside.

3-4 p.m.: Okay, okay, so I brewed a pot and drank the entire thing. Get off my back. The important thing is, I feel like my old self, albeit with dilated pupils and rapid heart rate, but   faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

4-5 p.m.: Decided to clean the closets and rearrange the stuff under all of the sinks.

5-8 p.m.: Brewed another pot of coffee. Been thinking of putting in larger patio slab; this seems as good of time as any. How hard can it be to form and frame a 12′ by 12′ square and mix and pour concrete?

8 p.m. –  midnight: Finally got some work done – 10 chapters! – on The Book That Will Never Be, plus I posted 10 status reports on Facebook, Twittered several mind-blowing thoughts, posted three recent craft projects on Pinterest and emailed  copies to all to my friends who refuse to engage in social networking.

1-3 a.m.: Can’t sleep. Might as well have a cup of coffee … I’m already awake. Called mom to ask what kind of stitch I should use for the binding on that quilt I started. Before she hung up on me she said if I called again at 2 p.m. she would call the police.

Geesh, what’s up with her? She’s kinda edgy.