I am giving in and brewing a second pot of coffee today. This would lead you to believe I am retro and don’t have a Keurig or Nespresso (half of that statement is true) and that I have a serious caffeine addiction that I might just want to address before my heart explodes. The truth is, although I have brewed ten cups of coffee today – I have consumed less than one.
Mug one went something like this: comprising of what standard coffee manufactures suggest is two or three ‘cups’ and a strong pour or two of hazelnut natural creamer, it sat on the counter while I rounded up the keys, the phone, the shoes that belong on small feet and the feet along with its accompaniments in order to leave for a short walk this morning. Now, I did double back and retrieve the lukewarm coffee, but it had lost its luster. When we arrived home an hour later I poured the remainder of the pot into a fresh mug and took it for a spin through the microwave, jazzing it up a bit with a dollop of whipped cream. But again, it sat, losing steam in more ways than one as I cooked breakfast.
Right now, its midday and it’s raining outside. I have finally given in and taken a shower, designated unfit to pull myself from my overcast mood by virtue alone. There are few things that pair more beautifully with unassigned minutes than a custom made cup of coffee – this is my conclusion as to why people are willing pay five dollars a day for the pleasure (that sounds snarky, but I truly understand that the side effect of care and comfort is a legitimate reason to outsource something we could totally manage ourselves).
The garaffice can take on a sensory deprivation quality – the air conditioning is on and it’s windowless in here so it could be anytime of the day or night as I write out my thoughts. But coffee in hand, I chose to color it early morning, where I feel like I can take another swing at any of my daily missteps. Maybe that is how my allegiance is earned, one third cup of coffee at a time.