I am a terrible person in the morning. There are many reasons for this, and none of them are very good reasons. Mostly, it has to do with my severe displeasure in creating a whole morning routine centered around the goal of leaving my snug bed and going to work for ten hours. When I think of mornings like that, it is difficult to be cheery and light-hearted. Another problem is lack of sleep. Every night, I get to bed around midnight and think to myself, "I should really go to bed earlier." But every evening, I also tell myself, "This is your only bit of freedom during the week. Don't waste it on sleep."
The third and least valuable reason for my sheer grumpiness in the morning is related to the fact that I do not wake up with an IV of coffee leading directly to my brain. The absence of the coffee is like missing, oh, I don't know, a limb. It hurts. It tingles. It infuriates. Doubling this annoyance is the fact that I make horrible coffee in the morning, because my vision is always blurred, my motor skills are droopy, and my breath is cause for immediate hallucinogenic behavior.
None of this would be so bad (well, except for having to go to work) if no one was around to witness and/or fall victim to this cruel side of me. Unfortunately, my husband is very much around to witness and fall victim. Since I am nothing more than a petty individual, the whole affair is made worse with the knowledge that my husband doesn't have to awake as early as I, and even when he does, he may not have to go anywhere. He works from home, as I did. It's almost like the Universe conspires to taunt me.
After three mornings in a row, with me stomping around our tiny house, shaking the floors and walls, screaming obscenities for no apparent reason, and sighing at my breakfast cereal (soggy, sad, and insulting), my husband could not take it anymore. That evening he told me, "I like you. But I don't like you in the morning." Because I have the emotional sensitivity of a seven year old with PMS, I immediately began crying, saying, "I j-j-j-just h-h-hate mornings! I have nothing to look forward to!" Yeah, I know. Pathetic.
Any other man would have lost it at this point; the lesser among the species may have hauled off and thwacked me on the back of the head. An average man would have said, "Oh, quit your whining". But Michael is not any other man, and for this I am glad. He gave me a hug and I apologized, telling him that I would try harder in the future to not be such a horrible person in the morning. All was fine.
The next morning, I awoke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee. When I got into the living room (I was sluggish but not biting), Michael presented me with a fresh breakfast of eggs and toast and a hot cup of coffee. I ate my delicious breakfast in silence, slowly allowing my mouth and body to wake up. And that was the first morning in a long time when I was happy about what I had to do that day. Ever since that morning, I have awoken to fresh coffee and breakfast. While I certainly don't expect this from Michael, I cannot tell him (or you, apparently) how much it means to me, how much brighter my day is, since the breakfasts began.
I'm telling you; either Michael is my girlfriend in a man's body, or he was sent to Earth to shame all other men into acting right. All I know is: he's not getting away, and I like my eggs just a little runny. For any cynics who may think otherwise, Michael is not 'whupped'; our house runs like a well-oiled democracy. Where I mostly get my way, but not all the time. But then again, Michael and I hardly disagree about anything. (I just turned and asked my husband if we disagree often; he shrank into the chair and meekly said, 'No, dear.' See? He's not whipped at all).
(Also, Michael was at shopping the other day and picked up these items for me, for no other reason than a couple weeks ago I mentioned I liked velour pantsuits. Humbling of me to admit, no?)
