My name is Diann Hunt, and I’m a coffeeaholic.

When this happened, I have no idea. I mean, twelve years ago, I would have snubbed my nose at the mere mention of the bitter brew. But then someone had to go and add chocolate to it. Then as if that weren’t enough, they dealt the final blow by adding whipped dream. I mean, who can walk away from that?

I should have seen it coming. The fact that my car automatically turns into a Starbuck’s parking lot is a clue. Lingering in a coffee shop from, say, opening to closing, might be another indication. Then of course, there are the mocha and hazelnut candles flickering from every room in our house. The coffee air fresheners in the car. But the truth hit me like a blast of espresso when my husband came in the bedroom as I was getting ready for church last week and caught me dabbing latte behind my ears.

“You need help, Diann.”

“I know.” I tried to look appropriately ashamed, then I raised my mug to him. “You want some?” He walked away. I was glad.

I didn’t have enough to share.

Okay, so I had a problem. I could do without it, right? No big deal. It was only coffee. For four days I ignored the cat calls coming from my espresso machine. For a while I even ignored the jackhammer wrecking havoc with my head.

But just before the SWAT team was called in as I tackled the barista into handing over all her coffee beans, a wise friend called out that my head would get better if I eased off coffee. Which is another way of saying, go back on the caffeine.

I brushed off the barista, threw in an extra fifty cent tip for the Americano, and now my world is right once again.

One word of advice. Never, never, NEVER come between a menopausal woman and her mug of coffee. Trust me on this one. Things just get ugly.