And as I watch for Tim, actually moaning in anticipation of our first encounter and the coming one-and-a-half week torrid love affair that will ensue during my visit with the in-laws, my husband laughs. He does not begrudge my desire for Tim. In fact, it amuses him. He helps me watch for my beloved, the dark object of my desire.
And then, just before the state line that separates Pennsylvania from New York, there it is. The sign I’ve been waiting for. Tim is there, and I am complete.
I am a coffee addict. Flat-out, unapologetic, I worship at the altar of java. Me without caffeine is not a pretty picture. When it comes to waking up in the morning and simply contemplating existing, it comes down to one thing.
For me, Tim Horton’s is nirvana. You can keep your Starbucks, because it’s a joke. Dunkin’ Donuts? Nothing but swill. But a medium cup o’ Tim Horton’s brew with two creams – cue Meg Ryan in that scene from When Harry Met Sally. Yup, it’s that good. I make noises that should only be come from a honeymoon suite when it comes to Tim Horton’s coffee. Passing priests cross themselves and pray for my salvation. Cops call in, because this level of enjoyment shouldn’t be legal. Even Lady Gaga is scandalized by how much I love this stuff.
I have recently completed this year’s pilgrimage to visit Tim – er, I mean my husband’s lovely family. Now I must mark time as the calendar drags slowly through the days when I return to that roasted bean heaven that awaits me. My Keurig must endure my scowls until then. Local coffee shops are treated to my withering glare. For I must have coffee, even though it cannot compare to that of the mighty Tim Horton’s. I must drink and I must suffer through. And I dream of the day when I can once more embrace that warm, delicious cup of heaven between my hands.
Wait for me, Tim. You know I’ll come running back to you.