Living in a city that arrogantly, but accurately, describes itself as one of the world’s best cities for coffee is a blessing and a curse. The blessing is obvious: the coffee in most areas rates. The cons: well, they’re more complex. Firstly, any person who describes their hobbies as food, drinks or travel is going to be dull. “I’m a foodie who loves to travel.” So you like eating and being on holiday? Fascinating.

The other big con: well, it only relates to me and all the other anxious, high-strung jitterers out there. When excellent coffee is always on hand, you can push it a little too hard. Your daily dose starts to exceed your tolerance, and it keeps going up and up, until one day your arms are rattlesnakes and you’ve ground your teeth to stumps. You start to think maybe coffee is the reason you can’t sleep at night and feel like a box full of bees all the time. Not a hive, but a sealed cardboard box. 

If I even think about coffee after midday, I’ll be awake for a week. It was this sleeplessness, which went from the occasional restless night to some epic insomnia, that pushed me to a place I never thought I’d go: decaf.

I knew that cutting coffee cold turkey wasn’t sustainable; I needed some hot coffee-like drink each morning. I had been down the road of turmeric lattes and dandy chais in the past, and it wasn’t one I was willing to revisit. They’re fine, I guess, but they’re not coffee. If I couldn’t have coffee, then I’d have the next best thing.

It’s been over six months since I switched to decaf. I’ve made a lot of bad choices in my life. This was one of them. Bad but not damaging: like choosing to stay with a dull but safe partner instead of riding off into the sunset with an exciting jerk in a tasselled jacket. While I’m not stoked with my decaf life, I am a bit less anxious, my heart races less and I feel like someone left a flap open on the box so some of the bees can get out.

I still have my morning ritual. I sit down and drink my “coffee” while throwing toys for my dog. The taste is the same, but it doesn’t have that thrill. I don’t feel a spark at the thought of my morning coffee. I’m not as addicted and I miss that.

I do get a rush of blood to my face, though, when I order a decaf in public. I am now the person who orders a decaf soy flat white, a decaf black coffee (that one gets stares) or an iced soy decaf latte. Everyone hates me. The cashier. The person waiting in line behind me. The barista. Sometimes, to cut the evil stares off, I distend my stomach and lovingly rub my hand up and down my protruding bulge. Pregnant women don’t get judged for drinking decaf. I always knew my pot belly was there for a reason.

I used to love lingering in a cafe over bottomless filter coffees. Just whittling away the day as my cortisol crept up until I was no longer able to sit still. Lingering over a decaf black coffee just doesn’t have the same cosmopolitan feel. It’s like I’m pretending to be a grown-up. I’m drinking hot brown water and I’m way too present.

We need more decaf drinkers so it’s less stigmatised. Let’s make decaf the new stainless steel water bottle – everyone should be drinking it everywhere, obsessively, and normalising this strange unsatisfying behaviour. Until then, I’m going to try to stick at it, if only to save myself from the bees and more painful dentistry.

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 119. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.