I have met the waffling, indecisive and insecure woman. And that woman is me, a sugar addict, ordering an afternoon latte.

Even as the words "tall vanilla latte" spill out of my mouth to the smiling face behind the counter, I'm on the verge of changing the order. I crave that sweet vanilla in my coffee, and yet I am also petrified by the journey those added calories make straight down south to the hips and thighs. They don't even make a detour. I know; I once overheard them arguing about who will get there first.

When I was a college student, ordering a cup of coffee meant nothing more than just that. In the absence of the fancier twists available today, a typical order at a no-frills coffee shop in Japan then was "the American" — a watery espresso. To that, I would add lots of milk to achieve that creamy, beige look and heap on about 10 grams of white, refined sugar. It was disgustingly sweet, like liquid candy, and I loved it. It went so well with the Mild Sevens and the Caster Lights I used to smoke at Denny's.

At home, we all drank instant coffee. My parents' modest two-story house in suburban Tokyo was occasionally stocked with green tea, but always with a glass jar of Nescafe instant coffee. Drip coffee, meticulously prepared with the use of a bubble-shaped glass receptacle, was the fancy kind refined palates drank. It was often served in exquisite Meissen coffee cups at dark and moody cafes that played records by the Berlin Symphony Orchestra and Billie Holiday.

Then there was a whole group of people who drank canned coffee. I have no idea who they are, but I have proof of their existence in the sheer number of vending machines that still dot the urban and rural landscapes of Japan.

In the late 1980s, I began to work and earn a tidy sum. I became hoity-toity and started drinking the overpriced thé au lait — a cup of whole milk infused with orange pekoe or Earl Grey leaves. But that period ended quickly after I quit working. It was a matter of time before the desperation of motherhood drove me inexorably back to coffee.

I was a tired mom always looking for a caffeine lift when Starbucks became standard fare in Tokyo in the 1990s. A sugar addict, I constantly yielded to the seduction of coconut and mocha frappuccinos. But being lean, I was completely unconcerned about what a frappuccino meant in caloric terms. All I knew was that I became an ogre to my two-year-old as I grew tired and my liquid candy helped me become a nice person again. Then one hot day, while sitting on our asses and sucking down frappuccinos in an air-conditioned car, my health-conscious friend Louise observed out of the blue that we were sitting on our asses and sucking down frappuccinos. "Do you know how many calories this thing has?" she asked rhetorically.

Thanks to Louise, I could never innocently enjoy a frappuccino again. From that day forward, every order of sweetened coffee has become a deal with the devil. The latte had become a foil to my ever-growing anxieties about aging and accompanying weight-gain that peaked within a couple of years after we moved to the U.S.

I watched as American women went to great lengths to get the coffee dessert they desire in a leaner package. I would quietly ridicule the desperados who were in line ahead of me, ordering their nonfat caramel macchiato so they can justifiably munch on their low-fat coffee cake later. "Give it up, lady!" I would say empathetically. "Your nonfat drink and your low-fat dessert are still high in calories!" Then it turns out that desperado is me, projecting my internal squabbles onto everybody else. Each order of each day punctuated with a slight question mark, tinged with a little guilt. "Will this or will this not stick to my thighs?" Just have a black Americano like your husband, says a tiny voice in my head, to end this ridiculous mental torture once and for all.

Note: The writer has since happily reached a state of abandonment. She now enjoys an 8-ounce vanilla latte every day without guilt. Occasionally with a side of coffee cake.

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