Thursday, September 21, 2017

On Weekday Mornings

I write to remember: Weekday Mornings.

5:30—Wes wakes up to embrace the quiet with a cup of coffee, and he reads, catches up with finances and selectively socializes (aka social media).

6:20—He comes into the bedroom, turns off the air conditioner, pulls the covers away, and gently rubs my back until I waken. Apparently I have a series of grunts and groans in my lucid state. I reach for him to pet his arm. Sometimes he’ll come into bed with me for a cuddle; if we're short on time, he'll slowly raise my body upright. With the latter, I typically collapse back into bed. I hate waking up. 

6:30—I'm finally out of the room. I climb onto his lap. Right now I have a growing belly, and this stage of our morning will possibly be eliminated for sometime, maybe indefinitely once we have a little one vying to be held by him too. I embrace him jealously.

6:30.42 because I am heavier with baby—I get off his lap. 

6:31—I drink his coffee. He already anticipates this. We stopped caring about whose coffee mug is whose—cat mug, Nepalese mug, mugs with identifying initials... I'll end up drinking some of his anyway. I only need a few sips.  I scroll through my phone.  Wes tries to tell me his new stellar financial plan that will pay off our debt in 6 months, afford baby's college tuition, and gift himself with a Toyota Tacoma AND a Ferrari 458... or bankrupt us indefinitely and we die of scurvy.  I smile tenderly, "Nope, not now, booger."

6:40—I prepare my lunch. If I was smart, I already took care of that last night. I'm not usually this smart. Wes always makes himself available: if it's a sandwich, he's already heating up my lunch meat. If I'm running late, he's cutting up my fruit. If I'm EXTRA late, he puts my lunch in my bag with extra snacks. If he doesn't know what's happening, he'll ask me, "What can I do to help?" I am probably spinning in circles when he asks me this. I quite literally mean spinning in circles.  "Wellps, I guess you're eating at 7-11 today," he says.  I concur.

6:48—The worst timing. I probably HAVE to go to the bathroom (for a while, if you know what I mean). "Pray for me!" I blurt out as I dash to the bathroom. "Godspeed!" He yells back.

6:53—I still don't know what to wear to work today. Wes says the yay or nay to color schemes. I can't fit my pants, or I forgot to iron something, or I forgot to shave during last night's shower. I hate wardrobe decisions.

6:57—Still don't know what to wear to work today. A load of tried-but-“no” backwards shirts and pants and empty hangers cover the freshly-made bed. "Hey.. hey.. hey!" Wes tries to interrupt my frantic and scurried thoughts, but fails. He gets a hold of my shoulders and looks me straight in the eye. "I can see you panicking. STOP panicking. You'll get to work, even if I have to drive you there." He picks a cardigan that ties my outfit together. He gives me a kiss on my forehead and tells me to breathe. I give myself a second to pause and kiss him back.  He's so nice to me.

6:58—I flurry trying to lock the back door and shut off the electronics. "Never mind, it'll turn off automatically!" he says. "Not the coffee pot!" I say, trying to reclaim my analog dignity. His smart home changes make me feel less human.  My spastic state reminds us both that I am human.

6:59—He picks out my shoes.

7:00—I dash downstairs while Wes locks up the apartment and unlocks the car from above. I hurry inside and quickly put on eyeliner before he comes in and gets the car moving. I forgot to tweeze my eyebrows.

7:01—We head for the bus stop. We wish it was 6:55. But it's not. And somehow this routine repeats on the daily.

7:02—We're driving. He holds my hand. And I love him more every morning.

7:04—We hope for pedestrians at strategic intersections to block the flow of traffic as we turn. We also look for human landmarks, like the lady at the bus stop who always looks so well-put together, sometimes she has a fan, sometimes she has sunglasses, but she always has makeup. And 5 bags at her feet. "What up, landmark!" We both weirdly say in unison.

7:05—We are running out of time.  "ECO: OFF," Wes yells at no one.  In a Fast and Furious world, the closest we'll come to turbo with our base model Honda Fit is to turn the Econ-mode off.  We're hopeless.

7:06—Wes: “Check the Bus app.” “7:12,” I say, not looking at my phone. “Are you sure?” He doubts. I bring out my phone and look anyway. “7:12,” I say smugly. He shrugs.

7:08—Wes gets annoyed at people who slow down as they merge onto the freeway. “God bless America!” he exclaims, and then proceeds to instruct the masses on how to drive.  He is fond of yelling at no one.
7:10—We're stopped at a red light.  My hands are sweating.  “Stop panicking,” he says. Naturally, I’m still panicking.

7:12—Two scenarios happen: either we have a second to park and I tell him "thank you and have a good day at work and I love you more than anything," or the likelier scenario, I action-movie jump out of the moving vehicle OKLOVEYOUBYE-littlehug-littlekiss-BIGHUG-littlekiss and head dive into the bus before the closing doors bite my ankles off.

I love remembering this. I love remembering the little routines. I love remembering the little beginnings, the way we begin our day, the way we began our marriage. And I hope I always remember these beginnings with a fondness for what made our marriage beautiful to us: beginning with loving each other in the middle of the frantic moments. Beginning with laughter even while I'm panicking.  Beginning with gentleness and affection. Beginning with grace.

7:14—I start to doze on the bus.  I wake up when he texts me he's back at the apartment, or I get a notification from the stupid non-analog smart home. 

We miss each other already.


PS. Analog over digital 4ever.  Except this blog I guess...

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