I’m awake before my 5:30 AM alarm sounds, but I lay there and wait to roll off the side of the bed until I hear the soft, digital chirp. I slept a little better last night thanks to the dog staying in her own bed.
In the pre-dawn darkness, I reach for yesterday’s T-shirt tossed across the footboard of the bed the night before and try to make sense of front vs. back. I find my glasses on the nightstand with my fingers and then grab my phone from the wireless charger, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Mary.
A bird sings a respectfully delicate song just outside our second-story bedroom window. Soon after, I hear the sound of a squirrel scampering across the roof. Good morning, my fellow early risers.
The bedroom door opens without a sound, but recently, it’s started to creak with the last few degrees of closure. I’ll have to do something about that. Nothing a little WD-40 can’t fix.
At the top of the stairs, I lift my phone to my face, nudge up my glasses, and do my best not to get distracted by the stack of notifications while I disarm the house alarm. Rule numero uno—no outside world until coffee.
Downstairs, my first stop is the bathroom. It’s the only room in the house we haven’t painted since we bought the place about five years ago. The walls are still covered in a bland warm gray color better suited for cubicles or the plastic shells of PC desktop computers.
I remember reading somewhere that a neutral gray is the color you should paint your house if you’re trying to sell it. It conveys no specific style and no personality. It appeals to no one, but more importantly, it doesn’t offend anyone, either. The color appears to be a couple of shades darker than the color of the toilet.
I wash my hands and run them through my hair before drying them with a hand towel.
Next up, I do my rounds of turning off outdoor lights and opening blinds before I drop a bagel into the 4-slot toaster set to 3 to give it a perfectly light brown crust. I place a small plate, butter knife, and jar of creamy peanut butter next to the toaster.
While that’s heating up, I grab a coffee filter and the Extra Dark French Roast coffee I ground the night before. The drip maker I use is preloaded with 6.5 cups of water in the reservoir so all I need to do is add the magic dust and hit brew.
I take my coffee black. No sugar. No cream. What can I say? I like to live life on the edge.
The bagel pops up from the toaster and then I take my time with the peanut butter to ensure it’s evenly applied. I don’t know which one I’m addicted to more, peanut butter or coffee, but if you cut me open, I’m pretty sure you would find a slurry concoction of the two packed into all the crevices and clogging my arteries.
While the coffee finishes brewing, I bring the bagel to my computer and launch Scrivener. Whatever I was working on the day before opens in front of me. A wall of words. My words. Now, where did I leave off? I usually read through a bit of it while I finish my breakfast.
Coffee is ready so I go to the kitchen and grab the same 70s-era coffee cup I drink from every day. It’s a modest cup, both in dimensions and decoration. The only design element is a brown-to-orange gradient running top-to-bottom, partially worn away on the handle from decades of use. I like the way it looks but I mostly love it for its size. I’m a slow drinker so big cups tend to allow the coffee to get cold before I can finish. I could pour less into a larger cup, but it’s all about surface area.
I fill the cup and carry it along with the insulated metal carafe to my desk. I place the carafe on a cork trivet, ease into my chair, and relish the blissful sound of silence. I love the calm and quiet of the early morning when the world is less chaotic and much less demanding of me. I can focus now. This is my time.
A sip of the dark roast. Will the words come easier today? How many of them will I manage to eke out? Of those, how many will be strong enough to survive?
Here we go.