Read, in last Sunday’s New York Times Magazine, about the troubles over at the Today Show. Falling ratings, anchor problems, the very messy ouster of Ann Curry, etcetera etcetera etcetera. Embarrassing as it is, I must confess I was only vaguely aware of it.
And only because it was mentioned on a show I was watching. Maybe Bill Maher. Honestly, I don’t remember. I wasn’t really paying attention, because horror of all horrors, I don’t watch breakfast television. Or whatever it’s called.
I know a lot of folks who can’t start their day without it. Not me. Although I don’t know why. I’m up early enough. I certainly have time to watch it. But I never have. Never.
Except when I’m traveling.
When I’m out of town I have a morning ritual. It’s the same every, single day. No matter where in the world I am. Before I go to bed the night before, I decide what I want for breakfast, which is usually the same thing. Or a variation of the same thing. Juice, scrambled eggs and ham. Or Juice, eggs over easy and bacon. Toast and coffee. I’ve been doing it for years, whether I’m traveling on business or pleasure.
The card (room service breakfast menu) gets hung on my door. Delivery time is also always the same. Between 7:15 and 7:30 a.m. My wake up call is always for 6:30. I jump in the shower and then wrap myself up in one of those cozy terry cloth bathrobes. At which point I turn on the TV, get back in bed and wait for my breakfast to arrive.
With every available pillow propped up behind me, I lounge, eat and watch. It is my favourite thing to do. They could call me and say George Clooney is waiting for me in the dining room, and I’d say “No thanks, I’ve already ordered room service.” The last cup of coffee in the pot is reserved for when I read the local newspaper. After whichever morning show I’m watching is finished.
Then, and only then, do I put my make up on and get dressed.
There’s no reason why I can’t do this at home. But I don’t. Nor do I ever have eggs for my breakfast at home. Never. Ever. I either have cold cereal with fruit, oatmeal or fruit and yoghurt. I don’t even make coffee. That I used to do, but got tired of throwing out all but a cup or two. I always made too much. Most of my friends have those 1-cup thingamajigs now. I keep saying I’m going to buy one, but as yet I haven’t. Probably won’t.
Starbucks is so close by. It’s almost easier to just go there.
Which makes absolutely no sense. Not even to me. How could it be easier to get dressed and go out, rather than wandering into the kitchen in my jammies, still bleary-eyed, and merely having to press a button. Knowing by the time my teeth are brushed, the aroma of freshly-brewed coffee would be teasing my taste buds. Knowing I could be wrapping my hands around a nice, hot, steaming cup of my favourite brew in less time than it’s taken me to type this sentence.
See. Of course it’s not easier. And it’s certainly not quicker. Or even as quick.
Of course I know it would be nice, in summer, to brew a cup and sit outside on my balcony, in my robe, enjoying the early morning quiet. And conversely, on those bitter cold winter mornings, it would be equally nice to stay cuddled inside where it’s warm.
So why don’t I just buy the damn coffee gizmo and be done with it?
Because there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. I’m flawed. That’s why.
Everybody makes coffee at home first thing in the morning. Isn’t that right?