Our life has changed in innumerable ways in recent weeks. Each day feels different than before, suspended in a sort of purgatory: “What and who will survive this uncertain waiting?” The waiting, as a concept, feels stagnant. However, it is defined by the fact of its change. This alternate manner of living, restricted and isolated, is uncomfortable because it is different from the habits to which we are accustomed. Many of the changes introduced in this period are halts. Routines and conveniences that defined life through their consistency are no longer practiced. I no longer commute to work. I no longer pack my lunches at night. I no longer eat out at restaurants. I no longer visit with friends.
Days are shrouded in the mourning of these halts. However, these halts have unlocked opportunities for starts. And one of my starts happens each morning…
Prior to quarantine, if you asked coffee and I if we were happy, we’d say yes, we were. We couldn’t conceive of life without each other. But in retrospect, at that point, though coffee and I were in a committed relationship, the romance had gone stale and the sex life was infrequent and uninspired. We stayed together because of, you know, the commitment. And we couldn’t conceive of a life without each other—Co-dependent, as Dax Shepard and Andrew would say. However, the death of my morning work routine brought the birth of extended mornings, and with that, sufficient time for a French press and slow coffee sipping. Boy oh boy, the romance is back, baby. And stronger than ever.
Before all this, my mornings went differently. I’d set two alarms, 6 minutes apart, that jarred me out of sleep. Each one did. As I lay in the wake of the second, I’d hear it: the muffled beep. And then, belatedly, I’d smell it. Coffee. With one eye opened, I’d heave out of bed and fumble for my workout clothes in the dark of the morning. I’d pour a cup of coffee and finish it in approximately 7 minutes, as I scrolled Instagram and watched the clock count down. Time for the gym! Following a jog home, I’d have approximately 17 minutes in the apartment (tops) to wait for the finicky shower to remain non-scalding for at least 30 seconds so I could shower, get out, comb my hair, get dressed, put my tupperwared meals in my work bag, and chug the last third of my pre-work coffee allotment before running to the subway. I mean, if I had to leave at 9:00 am to make my meeting, that meant I could leave at 9:06 and just sprint to the train right?
Once at work, I’d hopefully get a cup from the communal canteen. I’d drink this with my oatmeal breakfast. After a morning of meetings, I often had a post-lunch coffee; if anything, it gave me something to do. I’d sometimes fill up from the office kitchen—though at this point in the day it was never that good. Other times, I’d venture from the office and treat myself. In recent weeks, I’d cut back on this in the name of frugality. Really, I just couldn’t stomach the guilt of buying something that was overpriced, lasted under 10 minutes, and most importantly, that I could acquire for free. Each coffee “treat” required a cost-benefit analysis that often resulted in regret and financial self-shaming. Though relatively minor, the questioning of whether or not my choice was the “right” one detracted from the experience.
Now, my mornings are different. My alarm goes off and I lie in bed for a few minutes, smiling at the prospect of my day ahead. I climb out of bed within a few minutes of waking up, ready to tackle my morning. I walk into the kitchen, and pick the kettle off the counter. I walk over to the sink and turn it on, taking the few seconds to watch it fill up, my eyes straying to the window to check the weather. These long, extended seconds of prepping the kettle don’t detract from anything else as they would if I was on a timetable; they exist as they are. Then I walk the kettle over to the counter, flip the switch on, and listen to the rush of the kettle heating. I get out the french press, fill it with 6 scoops of whatever coffee bag we are currently drinking, and set it on the counter until the water has boiled. Then, I pour the water in the press, give it a stir, and close it. Technically four minutes to go, but usually, I leave it for longer. I froth some steamed almond milk and comb through the top news stories on my phone. I feel a part of something bigger. Once my coffee is ready, I settle on to the couch and read, coffee in hand. And I sip for as long as it takes. My second cup usually comes after lunch, a treat if I’m so inclined, the process of filling it up repeated.
These days, I don’t wake up to coffee made for me by a machine, I make it for myself. A stark contrast to mornings where each second spent doing something meant less time for enjoyment, these days, doing and enjoying are the same. I enjoy the time it takes to make my coffee and wait for it to steep. I earn the coffee. And the consumption of my cup has no timer. I’m not sure how many minutes the process takes, because it doesn’t matter. It takes however many minutes it does on that day for me to enjoy it properly. What freedom!
Though quarantine as a whole is typified by pressure and strain in financial, social, and professional realms, each day, for me, is also distinguished by a covert freedom. Yes, I’m nervous about whether my job will remain at the end of my furlough and about when, if at all, my unemployment claim will get accepted so I can get back-payed and pay rent this month. But every part of that is out of my control and for the first time in my life, I’ve been able to let go of the associated stress. I understand that some people don’t have the privilege of simply hoping it will all work out, and I am grateful for my ability to let go. It’s out of my hands, and that feels good. Pre-COVID, in order to have power over my future, I had to relinquish power over my days. I had to adhere to a daily schedule that wasn’t my own. I ostensibly had power in the macro, but often lacked it in the micro. Now, with the future abdicated to feelings of powerlessness, each day is in my control. What an ironic and magnificent reversal. Today holds whatever I choose. And if the old logic still holds at all, and the sum of my days impacts the future, then maybe I’m less powerless than I thought.
Write the Ship 