From the second my alarm clock chimes, I am fully attentive as to what type of morning it will be. On a usual good day, I would somehow manage to miraculously awake minutes before my alarm insists on doing the job for me. Being the morning person I am, I arrange a separate 20 minutes every morning for a date with my coffee. That’s right, 20 minutes of undisturbed serenity, as if every sip further prepares my mind for the day’s future efforts. No particular regimen take’s place here. Cleaning, studying, reading, or just plain sitting normally fulfills the duration of my romantic endeavors.
Needless to say, the mornings that do not leave room for my anticipated daybreak affair cause quite a comical commotion. These days frequently begin with the subconscious denial of time, seeing that my alarm reaches it’s peak in dealing with my unknown “snooze button” repetition. In my frazzled attempts to gather myself for the day, I conclude my mornings with leaving the house merely as disheveled as I was when awoken. My date stood me up. So what would have normally been my morning bliss is now replaced with excessive artificial sugars, poorly designed to-go cups, and cheesy advertising. Some would call this an casual visit to their nearest drive-thru, I call it a cheap date.
But in turn, when nighttime rolls around with the day’s attempts and ventures coming to rest, I wait. I wait for that chance to dwell in the satisfactory calmness of homemade coffee grinds before anyone else arises to pour my brewed leftovers. And when that moment approaches, I applaud myself for instilling such a delightful accomplishment thus far. So as I go about the remainder of my day and face whatever distressful burdens approach me, I can route back to my first success, and all it’s morning glory.
