The Monday after a spring forward time change. Rougher than a scorpion bite, right?

I’m trying to pull myself together enough to tackle the day, but I’m discombobulated in ten different directions. Capped by getting up extra early today to help my dad with an errand before work and, well . . . I’m hurtin’. I could barely get my contacts in through half-swollen eyes.

Thank God for coffee.

My illustrious history with the fuel powering millions started in college. Growing up, coffee was treated like a controlled substance — something to be enjoyed by adults only, obviously, and regulated. Since my mom has had an early-rising job for decades, I was used to seeing her caffeine intake rise steadily through my childhood. Poor Mom still keeps awful hours, and the accompanying coffee IV drip that follows her everywhere is understandable.

Me? I have less excuses.

I work locally, go to bed at a decent hour, typically fall asleep by 10 p.m. with a book on my chest. Though naturally drowsy, I don’t keep the four-hours-a-night sleep schedule many others do. I have a cousin who works night shifts as a nurse — and has four children under the age of 6. The last time we got together, she disclosed that she “occasionally” has a soda . . . but drinks no other caffeine.

Come again?

I actually had her repeat that. And felt infinitely inadequate and terrified for my future as a sleepy-eyed, slack-jawed parent, I’ll tell you.

I have a little experience with exhaustion, though it was thankfully short-lived. When I started working at Borders in 2006, my hours stretched from 8 a.m. classes in College Park to 6-10 p.m. night shifts at the bookstore. Then I came home and studied, read, wrote essays. Got up, rinse, repeat. No way was I getting through those days without a stimulant, and the delicious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee wafting between the stacks drew me in.

I was an easy convert.

One of our favorite bridal shower gifts last year was a Keurig, a much-treasured present from my grandparents. We can’t remember life before it. Our mornings start with Spence in the kitchen, brewing his coffee to go; I get out the creamer, filling a mug to enjoy before work. Sometimes the thought of choosing my K-cup is the only thing that makes getting out of bed tolerable.

Well, sort of tolerable.

The time change always gets me off-kilter, tying little weights to my eyelids by mid-afternoon. I’ve heard rumblings of doing away with daylight saving time all together, and I can’t say I’d be opposed.

Until then, grab a cup. It’s Monday, and we got this.