Friday, November 20, 2015

Decaffeinated Work

A Tim Horton's 'Double Double'.
* I am in no way disrespecting or diminishing the events which recently happened in Paris. I've decided NOT to blog about it, because I have nothing interesting or insightful to add. Believe me, I'm as hurt and angry as everyone else, but I won't be commenting on it. *

I LOVE coffee. I could write thousands of words about my first taste of it, my favorite kinds, (Turkish and Ethiopian)  how it affects me, and how I order it in various coffee shops. But coffee has left me with a kind of homesickness.

At both jobs, my need for coffee is legendary. (How many have you had today, Donna?) The first thing I do, even before punching in, is turn on the coffee maker. Yes, you can still talk to me--I may not make a lot of sense yet, but I'm still reasonably human. I'm okay as long as I know I'm going to GET a *&%# coffee. No matter what time I have to get up, it's what gets me to work on time, knowing I get to drink coffee when I get there. I take my first sip...ahhhhh! And I can get on with my day.

Yesterday, my city finally got snow. In typical, unpredictable Alberta weather fashion, it was overly-expected. This year it's at least three weeks late.

I hit my snooze alarm three times before I got up, looked out the window, groaned loud enough to wake hibernating bears, and prepared for work.

Why don't I make coffee at home BEFORE work? Because if I did, there might be reasons not to go. This is where the homesickness kicked in.

I like my jobs. Each day I get a lot of exercise and satisfaction from all the things I cook and prep. I like a job well done, and I like my co-workers.

But yesterday, as I left my desk, my husband, kitties and warm home, I couldn't help but remember what I was doing this time last year.

I'd woken early, and made myself bacon, eggs, and coffee. I stayed in my flannel pajamas. I fed my cats, snuggling the hell out of them before I sat at my desk, smug with the knowledge that I didn't have to go outside and face the cold. I could sit still and create. Bliss.

I remember that first sip of coffee, felt the anticipation of the rush I knew would come. I opened the file to my novella, eager to begin my writing day.

I miss that feeling so much. I miss my old routine. Nowadays, I sit at my desk--after work--checking the clock, assuring that I don't write too late so that I won't be dusty-eyed tomorrow. Knowing I have to be up in six hours. Or less. Then knowing exactly why I need that coffee so much, because this happens so often.

So I can't have a coffee. I've actually reversed my life. How does one write without coffee? First World Problem, I know.

Here's a link to one of my first and favorite blog posts. I wrote this one as 'Thoeba', and it's about her first experience with coffee. :