When I’m in the doctor’s waiting room, I’m inevitably faced with a moment of truth … or, more exactly, a bunch of them.

It has to do with those forms we fill out. You know the ones — they ask all kinds of questions that should be easy to answer, but aren’t.

They’re about my health, so my answers should be simple and straightforward, but they’re not. For one thing, I feel a lot of this is a waste. Certainly, a lot of it is redundant. For instance, why do I have to put my birth date atop each page? Is it so vital I have to repeat it ad barfeum? Or is the reader an aspiring astrologer who’s gotta check my Venus-Neptune conjunction to see if this day is propitious for things medical?

Beyond that, a bunch of the questions are flat-out ridiculous. On my last visit I noticed a real lulu. It said, “List all operations.” Then, after that, it said “Reason for surgery.”

Reason why I had a heart bypass? Simple: I always wanted to know what it was like to spend five hours on a heart-lung machine.

Reason why I had a hip replacement? Also simple: The scar, which is the best imaginable conversation starter for blind dates.

I put in those “answers” figuring no one’s gonna actually read them anyway.

The list goes on …

My weight? Depends, of course, on if I’m clothed in my full winter multiple-layers-of wool gear, which I’m sure is at least 10 pounds heavier than my summer outfit of shorts and exotic Hawaiian shirt. It also depends on where I am in my Get Thin And Beautiful Crusade, which also has at least a 10 pound variance. But since they’re gonna weigh me anyway, I’ll put down my lightest weight and then tell them to get the scales calibrated, for Pete’s sake!

Then there are questions about my state of mind. Depressed? Anxious? That also depends. If I just read a national newspaper or listened to NPR, you can bet your bip I’m depressed and anxious, as I think any cognizant soul would be. If I pored over my anthologies of The Far Side or Mad magazine, I’ll be happy as a lark. Not wanting my saturnine musings to get me referred to some shrink who’ll wanna know if I ever dream of mythical creatures (Yes … since in my book Marilyn Monroe and Bridget Bardot are both myths), I say “No” to depression and anxiety.

I keep checking the boxes and filling in the blanks and all’s tickety-boo till, suddenly, there it is: Do you drink coffee? If so, how many cups a day?

I nibble on my pen, lost in thought.

Should I or shouldn’t I? I ask myself.

Question: Should I or shouldn’t I what?

Answer: Tell the truth.

It’s not that I’m thinking of giving goofy answers — I really want to answer honestly, but I don’t know how. It’s not a straightforward situation.

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Coffee calculus

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How many cups of coffee do I drink a day?

Hmm … depends on how you define a cup.

I mean, there are those delicate china cups like the ones my Maiden Aunt Lavinia served tea in. You know the ones — for formal dining (at least formal to me) and so delicate they’ll chip if you give them a dirty look. And so small they hold maybe a shot glass worth.

Then there are mugs. But let’s face it — there are mugs … and there are mugs. While all of them are bigger than Aunt Lavinia’s cups, some mugs are bigger than others. And if you get hand-thrown mugs, some can be much bigger. In fact, I’ve got one that’s so big it looks less like a coffee mug than a blue bucket with a handle on its side. Plus there are travel mugs, which also have no standard size. They run the gamut from 16 ounces to The Big Kahuna called, appropriately enough, The Bubba Classic, which holds a bladder-bustin’ 52 ounces!

Finally, there’s the measure on coffee makers. I have two of them, both ancient Corning Ware blue sunflower stovetop percolators — the best coffee makers ever. One is a six-cup model; the other is nine cups. But are they truly six and nine cups? Again, it depends. The six cup model will make 42 ounces of coffee; the nine cup will make 60 ounces plus change. So, according to the Corning Ware folks, a cup is a paltry six-plus ounces.

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The final tally

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All right, now that you know more than you ever wanted to know about coffee makers and containers, what about li’l ole Dopey me? Or more exactly, how many cups of joe does li’l ole Dopey me drink a day? After all, lest we forget, that was the original question, the one I’m trying to figure out how to answer honestly, as I sit in the sawbones’ waiting room.

I take a deep breath and try to calculate …

Every morning I fire up my six-cup percolator. When it’s done, I swill the entire contents, since I’m incapable of getting on with what passes for my day with any less in my tank. So that’s six cups.

Then I brew another pot so I’ll be able to leave my digs and be somewhat functional in town. When the brewing is done, I fill my travel mug and then pour the rest in my 1970s vintage Stanley thermos. I’m not sure how much the travel mug holds. All I know is once I stopped in a Plattsburgh Stop-N-Shop that had a special going that day: Travel mug refills for one buck. Of course I filled up. But when I got to the counter, the clerk (the rotten little snot) told me I hadda pay the regular price because the special was only for mugs 18 ounces or less and my mug was 20 ounces.

I cruise my usual village haunts, shootin’ the breeze with my usual list of suspects, slurping away till the mug is empty. Then it’s time to get serious. I go to my office (more popularly known as Nori’s cafe) where I do my writing. And how can I write without coffee? I can’t, so I have a cup (and if you wanna get anal about it, it’s the 20 ouncer).

That takes care of my coffee consumption for the day.

But not for the evening, since I always have a travel mugful before dinner.

And that accounts for my total daily coffee consumption.

So, reviewing the numbers, we get back to the original question on the doctor’s form, namely how many cups of coffee do I drink a day?

First, my top o’ the morning consumption. It’s six cups, but that’s only according to Corning. To my way of thinking, six ounces can hardly be considered a cup of anything, except maybe kindness. I drink all my home coffee in my travel mug, which is 20 ounces. So because I fill it up two and half times, it means I’ve had two and a half cups.

Then my “one for the road” is another cup.

My Nori’s fill-up is another cup. And so is my nightcap.

Thus, according to my coffee calculus, I drink five-and-a-half cups a day. And it’s so awkward to put five-and-a-half, I round it off to five. Which is what I wrote on the form.

I just read the FDA guideline on coffee, which says a safe level of consumption is 4-5 cups a day. While I don’t consider coffee as big a health threat as, say, tobacco and alcohol, I know there are people who over-consume it to dangerous levels. And lemme tell ya, I’m sure glad I’m not one of them.