I Might Love Coffee More Than My Husband (Sorry, Babe)

Dear Coffee,

I love you. You wake up smiling each morning and just give and give all day. You are consistent and loyal and you have never lied to me (except that one time when you were decaf, and that day is still too painful to talk about).

You have been the best relationship I’ve ever had. I don’t see that changing, because there’s not a man out there who can look as good as you in an 8-ounce holiday cup. I like to bring my own cup, though. I’m wild like that.

Here are other reasons why I adore you, Coffee, you sexy beast:

You don’t ask for anything in return—no foot rubs, no shared Netflix account. You’ve never once asked me to scooch over in the shower. The shower is my time, and you respect that.

You make me a better person. One minute, I’m the swamp thing slogging my way through making breakfast and the next, I’m Wonder Woman. That’s all you, Coffee.

You get my heart rate up without making me work up a sweat. There are no acrobatics or playbooks needed, no hamstring stretching.

Your morning breath does not make me gag. Actually, the anticipation of smelling your morning breath is the sole reason I’m able to get up and face each day. I’ll bet even Angelina and Brad don’t have that, Coffee.

You are simple — no special equipment or gadgets needed. It’s just you, me and my favorite unicorn cup.

If I forget about you, you heat right back up, over and over and over. Some days, I forget about you 20 or even 30 times and you just bounce right back, no hard feelings.

I know what to expect from you every single time. There’s no surprise move that you read about on the internet pulled out at the critical moment. You are as predictable and comforting as the sun rising each morning.

You listen to my words. So many people around me are not listening to my words. But you, you sit there, just gazing up at me, rapt in the glory that is my makeup-less face.

When you are gone, I feel like I may die. I’m completely dependent on seeing you every single day. Some may call this obsessive. I call it love.

You are even able to dress up and be fancy in the evening. I’m looking at you, affogato.

You never argue with me — about pants, taxes, who didn’t flush the toilet. It’s like you just accept that I’m always going to be right.

My whole family approves. Even Aunt Helen who hates small children and butterflies loves you.

Yours is a quiet adoration. You know that I don’t need words. There are too many words being spoken to me right at this moment. My whole head is filled with words, and you know this and you are silent.

You don’t judge me when I’m hungover. Instead, you embrace me and wrap me in your arms and make me feel like I might live again.

You are there for me, every day. Without fail, you show up. And that’s really all a girl can ask for.

Coffee, I love you. I know that we will be together until I’m spiking you with whiskey and playing Bunko in my bathrobe and gossiping with all of the other 80-year-old women.