What with the joy of unemployment and devil-may-care sleep cycles woefully behind me, I have developed a fairly consistent morning routine to get me to my desk on time (read: progressively later each day since the day I started). I wake up early, exercise the dog for an hour, drink coffee, get dressed and ready, drink coffee, cook up some breakfast and pack lunch, leave for the office, drink coffee in the car, arrive at the office, and drink coffee until the moment when I am certain I have had so much that my hands are going to fall off from the shakes and I'm going to toss my cookies (if I had cookies for breakfast- not an impossibility) all over my desk.
I mean- It all starts out normally enough, setting the coffee pot at home to make ten cups of coffee for two people. But once it goes beyond that, once I get to the office and that little table in the common area with the microwave and the single-cup coffee maker starts calling out to me, asking me to forget a stomach so sensitive that coffee used to make me throw up with such consistency that my dad and I had to have a terrifically awkward conversation wherein I explained to him that, no, I wasn't pregnant just unwilling to forsake caffeine for health, that's when I'm in trouble. And yet, as often as not, I go for it. Like the girl you had to stop going out drinking with because she just got too cuh-razy all the time draping herself over the bar at the end of the night to slur an order for a tequila shot to close things down, I will drink that bad-choice cup of coffee. And then I will pay for it. And then I will do it again. Kind of like an experiment. Sort of like I'm a scientist. Almost as if I had a job that real.
No comments:
Post a Comment