My morning routine

I’ve become one of those people who washes their breakfast dishes. I wash my breakfast dishes because I’ve also apparently become one of those people who eats oatmeal in the morning. I learned the hard way that stuff dries to the consistency of concrete. (The “hard” way. Get it?)

I can’t really say where the desire for oatmeal in the morning came from, but it’s been weirdly comforting and frankly, tasty. It’s not fancy, just plain oatmeal with flax seeds. I get it in little pre-measured packets that double as the measuring cup for the milk. You can use water, but what’s the point in that? A little honey and some cinnamon and I’m good to go.

Of course, a strong cup of coffee with honey and milk is part of what’s becoming my little morning tradition.

I do want to clarify that I don’t pop out of bed with the first rays of dawn and commence to making my oatmeal. Oh no. There’s a healthy amount of disgruntled snoozing of the alarm, followed by bleary-eyed checking of the notifications.

Depending on bladder capacity, there might be some mindless scrolling. I have to catch up on the unnatural number of Reels my best friend spams me with. TikTok is a strong contender for early morning brain rot as well.

Eventually, I can’t put it off any longer and I actually crawl out of bed. I listen to one of the cats whine about his empty food bowl. (Note: there are three bowls total, two of which are typically at half capacity.) I mumble in agreement that he is indeed severely abused and maltreated as I poke my finger to check my blood sugar levels. In the last few months, the number has been more acceptable than in recent history, but it’s still a work in progress.

I fumble around with my morning medications, thankful there’s only a few. Remember, this is all happening pre coffee, so the gray matter isn’t functioning at top speed.

The cat reminds me I’m a terrible human and tries to trip me as I’m leaving the bathroom. His sister stares forlornly at the toilet, waiting for me to flush it again. On the days I humor her, 90 percent of the time she darts out of the room like a maniac and the remaining 10, she flings herself toward the fixture to raptly watch the swirl and gurgle. I have no idea what’s happening between those little ears.

I fill the cats’ empty bowl and touch the food in the other two. You always have to touch the food. I don’t make the rules.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, I have a 50/50 chance of remembering why I’m there. Coffee and oatmeal. I criss-cross the room way too many times, gathering up the oatmeal, getting out the milk, staring at the coffee pot and once again wondering what I’m doing. Right-o, oatmeal and coffee. This seems to be the time when the old brain is coming online and the struggle is so real. I get halfway to done, then there’s buffering.

Once I’ve accomplished the very simple tasks of making a bowl of oatmeal and cup of coffee, I get comfy on the sofa and check emails. I’ve finally learned that I should only read my emails at this time of day. Never, ever respond. That’s a two cups of coffee job.

Pretty soon, I’ve finished my coffee and realized the oatmeal has gone cold. Undeterred I eat it while realizing I’m late — again — and really need to get out the door.

There’s time spent examining the fine lines under my eyes, wondering if I have jaundice, musing about why I seem to have a dent in my head (I have questions for my mother) and finally brushing my teeth in a panic as I wonder what I’m going to wear for the day. Showered and dressed, I finally get on my way.

During my 19 minute commute, I realize I’m still hungry and wonder why I didn’t have something besides oatmeal. Probably to avoid washing more dishes. I promise myself I’ll hit snooze less the next day. Anybody got the Vegas odds on that actually happening?