Back in February, I had a routine. My light alarm would turn on. I’d chug some water, put on my shoes, and head outside. There wouldn’t be cars on the road yet. I’d watch the sun rise somewhere around Van Ness. After 2.7 miles, I’d be at Industrious.
The office would be empty. The lights would be off. Nobody was expecting an email from me. No calls on my calendar. No nagging tasks.
I’d pour myself coffee. Sitting by the window with a steaming mug waiting for the world to wake up was the best part of the day.
Since March, we’ve been making French Press every morning. We buy nice beans. We grind them ourselves. We use an electric kettle to hit 212° water.
The coffee doesn’t taste any good.
Perhaps I’m waking up too late. It’s tough knowing New York is getting ready for lunch by the time I fill my mug. Or perhaps I’m checking my email too quickly.
I’ve tried getting out of bed, walking around the block, and then coming in for coffee. It doesn’t help it taste better.
I’ve tried taking the coffee with me on a morning walk. I’ve tried drinking the coffee while wearing a robe. I’ve tried drinking the coffee in jeans. I’ve tried reading while sipping. I’ve tried writing. I’ve tried programming.
I end up staring out the window, my mind jumbled.
I don’t know how to make it taste good again.
Most of my friends growing up had the same hair style: long bangs, swiped across the forehead. The style is often paired with boat shoes, Costa Del