I LOVE mornings, you guys.
Of course I have my favorite kinds, which fluctuate according to season and mood, but really I love all mornings–the lazy, gluttonous ones where I wallow in bed with the dogs until shameful hours, the unholy ones where I get dressed in the dark at 5 A.M. to travel to work and grind espresso until my neurons start firing, the militaristic, highly-regimented ones where I accomplish an entire day’s chores and errands before noon, and the adventurous ones that involve spontaneous breakfasts at some new diner or cafe I haven’t yet explored.
There’s just so much potential in the morning. They’re saturated with the stuff.
Lately, I’ve been working mid-shifts at the shop, which has allowed me some especially rare jewels for this contemplative little introvert: mornings alone. By the time I wake up, Marc and our current houseguest have both left for their jobs, and I find myself in a deliciously empty house (not counting the furry ones) with a good solid chunk of time before I have to be anywhere or interact with anyone.
Don’t get me wrong–I love people, especially Marc, and I derive metric tons of joy at having a house full of people enjoying each other’s company. Those nights of crowded living rooms were some of my absolute favorite memories over the past year. But living in a community house, and even moreso getting hitched, has taught me a newfound appreciation for the opposite, but equally valuable end of the spectrum–the joy of solitude.
Ditching the TV also helps with that, so I’m prevented from filling the silence of the house with the brain-draining white noise of Jersey Shore or America’s Next Top Whatever. Instead, I curl up on the sofa and read a book. Or I sit on the porch and plan out my next short story in my head. Or I do housework, which is therapeutic for me in its own right.
Silence. A fresh cup of coffee. An entire day ahead of me.
Yeah, mornings are pretty much my favorite.