I’m getting up early again, you guys. Like, for a job. I KNOW. My lifestyle. It is so unique.
Okay, but seriously. For those in the relative know, I had spent half of July and the better part of August luxuriating in the bosom of the newest and best colloquialism ever: Staycation. Staycay 09 was really just a hopeful, restful, reflective and blindly optimistic break between the steady, full-time job I’d held for two years and the two jobs that, through what can only be a strange, cosmic marriage of miracle and sheer force of will (either those, or a strange trifecta of foot-stomping stubbornness, weird petulance, and pure naiveté, still with a sprinkling of miracle over top), managed to materialize over the course of that month-and-change. Whatever it was, I came out of it with a new frame of mind and two lovely, if wildly different, jobs that make up one meager, yet livable income.
And now I’m getting up at 5:45am on the daily.
And at 5:45 in the morning, I want to cry a little. Just, you know, whimper as I rub my eyes and reluctantly stretch one leg, then, sigh, the other. To combat this, I need things to look forward to. Something to live for. Something to get out of bed for.
I get out of bed for this:
That’s iced coffee over there. Nothing special – brewed extra-strong in a big pot and then kept in my fridge throughout the 5 or 6 days it takes me to get through it. When morning temperatures are anywhere over 60 degrees, it is iced coffee season in my apartment. (No one likes to start a day sweaty from having to down hot coffee before sailing out into the world.)
But then down there, in the bowl, that’s breakfast. Light of my life, morning treasure, sweet yogurt of angels. My grief at having to wake up in the semi-darkness (these days) dissolves once I remember, all over again and in my half-sleep, like remembering a really good dream or that today is payday, that THIS is what I get for breakfast.
And THIS is, in all truthfulness, also not really anything special, per se. It’s greek yogurt, cherry preserves (in the pretty La Bonne Maman jar that I get to reuse as a glass), and a wee dab of lemon curd. I set it up all pretty like in the picture, but give it a quick stir before the first smooth spoonful’s tart cherries and citrus remind me that swinging my legs over onto the floor in the morning is not nearly the worst fate that could befall me.
It’s not complicated, and it’s not fancy. It’s just breakfast. But at 5:45, straining to find some lick of sunlight on the horizon, realizing you’re bidding summer goodbye in these moments, it’s what brings you back into the land of the living and grateful.