I descend from a long line of coffee drinkers.

On both sides. (And both sides of those sides.)

Dark coffee.

The darkest coffee.

Sludgy coffee.

The sludgiest coffee.

At least that’s what it looks like to me, the token non-coffee drinker.

I didn’t set out to be a teetotaler It just happened that way.

I’ve taken a few sips now and then – sips that were dressed up with as many creamy and sugary accessories within reach.

So basically sugarized French-vanilla creamer with a dash of coffee.

Blecch. In every way.

So why does it smell so good?! So delicious? So delectable? So perfect?

Every time I walk into a coffee shop with one of my coffee-drinking friends, or wake up to the smell of my coffee-drinking husband’s timed brew, or catch a whiff of the beans as they spin through the grinder, I think that surely I must be mistaken. Surely this beverage must be liquid gold. Surely my past poisonous sips have been flukes of brewery shenanigans. Surely, if I gave it just one more chance, I would become a devoted disciple and connoisseur whose entire self shivers with delight as she cradles the mug between her hands, raises it to her lips, shuts her eyes in anticipation, breathes deeply of the heavenly aroma, and then kisses the rim lovingly as the drink of goddesses washes over my tongue, into my soul.

Whatever.

I can’t stand it. I just can’t. I’ve tried it every way I can and – except for very rare occasions when there is absolutely nothing else available to wash down the wedding cake – I have resigned myself to being nothing more than a coffee-breather. A wannabe. A poser. A non-drinking Norwegian-Swedish-German-American. I’m pathetic.

Still, I suppose it could be worse. I could hate diet Coke with crushed ice and a vanilla flavor shot in 32 ounce styrofoam cups from the gas station fountain.

Whatever.