On Sunday night, the hubs decided to make a pot of decaf. We were sitting at the kitchen table and it was cozy and the idea of a cup of coffee was too ideal to pass up.

“This is decaf, right?” I asked, joking.

“Ha! Would be funny if it wasn’t,” he said.

We clarified which bag the coffee came from, and it was, indeed, decaf. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter. While I was about to pass out at 7, by 10:30, I was completely wired. I sat in bed, catching up on Grey’s Anatomy episodes on my laptop. I was only going to watch one, but ended up watching 3. Then, of course, I started worrying about car accidents, cancer, and a full range of illnesses only worthy of mention in obscure medical journals and procedural TV shows.

After accidentally waking J up three or four times (he falls back to sleep so easily), I decided to hang out in the living room instead. I watched two episodes of How I Met Your Mother, and all the new episodes of The Office.

2:30 in the morning, and I still wasn’t sleepy. Argo and J were snoring in the bedroom, and the cat was giving me the evil eye from the couch. I used to love being up so late. It used to feel like quality alone time, but now it’s just lonely. I wasn’t lucid enough to get any work done, but I wasn’t sleepy enough to go to bed. Then I discovered the wonder that is classic television reruns on CBS.com. One episode of Family Ties made my eyelids heavy and my brain regress to a time where my dreams were filled with the possibility of marrying Michael J. Fox.

I managed to keep that blissful sleepy feeling as I closed up my computer and stumbled into the dark bedroom. But then I stepped on a shoe that I thought was the dog, bent down to pet him, and caught the corner of the bedframe full on my left boob, so hard that I knocked some of the wind out of myself. I spent the next 45 minutes hugging an ice pack and trying to breathe normally. I have a very odd looking bruise.

I am never drinking coffee after 4pm again. Decaf or otherwise.