I’m just not a morning person. When my alarm goes off, I hit the snooze, roll over, and repeat every nine minutes for an hour or so. I pry my eyes open, catch up on whatever phone notifications came through while I slept from texts, calls, Facebook, and emails while I bury my nose in my younger dog’s neck. She’s almost three years old, but smells like a puppy every single time she wakes up. After dog snuggles and finding out what people thought of their mornings, I climb out of bed and lumber my way to the back door to let the dogs out, get smacked in the face by some degree of chilly winter air, and attempt to remain upright while the sheets sing sirens’ songs.
This day, I couldn’t even get up slowly. It was a Tuesday, and I’d worked the night before until 3am and wolfed down my dinner at 4:30am. I slept in a not-so-classy pair of booty shorts so I wouldn’t be caught naked while the delivery guys knocked on the door. This day, I was finally having my new washer and dryer delivered, which happen to live in my kitchen and be another peg for the remodel. I set my alarm for 9am, the earliest they could deliver, and drifted in and out of sleep until 10:40am, when they finally arrived. They did their thing and I tried to stay out of the way, but the whole process was over in less than 20 minutes and painless. I threw a $30 tip their way and mentioned they should get some lunch or weed or something for their efforts. They were surprised, but I think with the stray stilettos all over the floor, they shouldn’t have been!
So, I’d worked up this appetite while Facebooking and watching other people lift things — funny how that happens, huh? — and I needed some protein and felt like a nice, light breakfast. I just wanted to be warm and underneath the covers. I settled on making “adventurous eggs” with added garlic powder, black pepper, and cayenne, plus raspberries, a mild and local Farmer’s cheese, and gluten-free bread in my new toaster with some preserves I was gifted for Christmas.
This jam was about a hundred times better than I thought it would be. I totally recommend hitting up their website for a jar yourself — it’s worth the extra cost, and I can’t imagine going back to Smuckers bullshit after this jar.
This wasn’t any feat of cooking prowess by far. It’s just some scrambled eggs and toast and fruit and cheese. But underneath, there was a measure of emotional self-care that I have a difficult time doing for myself. There isn’t anyone around to have breakfast in bed with, to make it for, and certainly, I won’t have anyone for a long time to make it for me or care for me in this intimate way. I can do it myself, sure, but having the emotional guts to do things for myself when others won’t is both incredibly lonely and a sure sign that I can — and always will — take care of myself without the need for a spider-killing, jar-lid-loosening, furniture-moving, reaching-things-up-high man.