Some people hold to the idea that the way the day starts is an indication of how the rest of their 24 hours will evolve. If the day starts well, everything will be fine, if however you get out of bed on the wrong foot, if your car crashes on the way to work, if you find a dead cat in your yard, or spill mustard all down your freshly pressed white blouse… then the rest of the day will ‘obviously’ be a no-no.
I do not really think that’s true.
BUT there is one exception.
I never have breakfast in the morning. I never did for as long as I can remember. It’s not how I was raised. Mornings were always rushed breathless affairs. There were always teeth to be brushed, clothes to be worn hurriedly before the school bus arrived, and since I always preferred sleep to food, mornings were always calculated to maximize that. When I was a child and then a teen, I always slept as much as possible and then had 20 minutes at most to freshen up and dress before heading out. And that has not changed today.
I start work very early. At 6.45am to be specific. Waking up an hour before that means I have 30 minutes to shower, do my face, and get dressed before hitting the road, and there isn’t time for breakfast or even for drinking something hot, during those 30 minutes of panic.
That changes once I actually arrive at work, since I am always the first one to get there. I hang my bag and my jacket, switch on my pc, arrange my stuff just so, and then, and only then, take five minutes to enjoy a good cup of ‘wake-me-up’ coffee. Of course, it’s only after the second cup, an hour or so later, that my foggy brain actually starts perking up a bit. But it’s a start.
Starting my day with coffee means it’s going to be a busy, practical PRODUCTIVE kind of day. It means I mean business. That I know I have a lot of stuff to do, and that I’m absolutely going to dig in and do it to the best of my abilities. And this is how I start most of my days – from Monday to Saturday to be precise. I do not work on Saturdays. Not at my job at least. However having your own home also means having chores and household duties, which all tend to pile up during the week, and which therefore have to be tackled on Saturdays.
So yes, I still get up pretty early on the first day of the weekend. I drink my coffee, and start polishing furniture, (trying to) polish mirrors, tackle those bathrooms (because unfortunately, they never get clean by themselves) and wash the floors. Meanwhile, my other half takes care of the laundry and goes to the store to buy bread, milk, eggs, etc. My second cup of coffee usually sees me cooking lunch.
And then… Sunday comes round.
Blessed Sunday when there is no job to go to, no chores to do, no housework to finish, and (usually) nothing in particular to worry about or rush towards.
Sunday is a tea day.
I wake up late. My so brings me tea in bed. I sip it slowly while I peruse social media, then I go shower, emerge sleepily and softly, look around me, happily confirming the fact that I AM FREE FOR THE DAY. TOTALLY FREE! Free to go out and enjoy myself with friends, free to indulge in a solo swim if I want to, free for a kiss and a cuddle (or two) with my beloved hunk. Most importantly, free to READ, CHILL and DO NOTHING ELSE for hours and hours at a time.
Oh yes, Sunday is definitely a tea day. The only thing I need to worry about, is whether to dunk my biscuit or just eat it.
Darkly Dreaming Moonsong 