I've been shaking things up lately. Some mornings I go to Dunkin Donuts instead of Starbucks. Some mornings I even make coffee at home. I never plan it in advance; my long standing morning routine has yielded to a daily pre-dawn whim, and I kind of like the uncertainty.
I am living in the present now, no matter what I do. Maybe my return to such a basic yogic philosophy will actually draw me back into a full yoga practice, maybe it won't. My immersion in the moment prevents me -- saves me really -- from planning too far in advance. And by too far in advance I mean mid morning.
My morning Starbucks routine had become so regular, so utterly predictable, that a missed appearance would prompt all sorts of questions and occasional odd behaviors from the other pre-dawn diehards. After a particularly long absence of three days, the fire chief wondered if I had been on vacation. My favorite barista (who is friendly with my manicurist and knows when I get a bit lax in my grooming) wondered if I had been ill. The other guy, the one whose name I'll probably never know, had actually stolen my seat on my favorite couch. "I figured you had stopped coming," he told me, offering to get up and move. I assured him I was flexible and could be perfectly happy in a different chair. What's a little white lie between insomniacs?
For a while, the predictability of the routine, the familiarity of the crowd, the cozy camaraderie of folks who relate to each other only as silent temporary cohabitants in a commercial space, provided me with comfort and a powerful feeling of belonging. But as the relationships started to seem clingy (and by clingy I mean simply an increasing expectation we seemed to have of each other's presence) my fear of commitment began to kick in. My desire to be beholden to nobody, to fly under the radar and avoid owing a piece of myself to anybody (other than my children and my blind dog), gave me pause in the morning. Loyalty has its price.
The allure of the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru became overwhelming. No attachments to furniture, no small but dependable crowd awaiting my arrival to complete the circle. No need to get out of the car, and the coffee -- which is sixteen cents cheaper -- tends to be less bitter. On weekdays, it opens at four, so there's no need for delayed gratification. I was becoming hopelessly hooked, invigorated by the mystery and newness of a a fresh attraction. My car seemed to take the turn automatically, and life in the moments of my slightly altered mornings was good. Really good.
Until the other day, when I showed up particularly early on a Sunday and the guy at the window decided to strike up a conversation that went beyond the coffee transaction. "You on your way to work?" Manny and I both gave him a blank stare, wondering why I would be on my way to work at five o'clock on a Sunday morning with my dog in tow. Although I guess the guy at the window was already at work, and maybe his dog was on the floor and I just couldn't see him.
"No. I'm just an early riser." I felt slightly threatened by the friendliness -- the last thing I need is a new relationship -- but the guy had such a genuine smile I didn't want to be rude. Which worked out fine, because the conversation pretty much ended, and he just told me to have a nice day. Safe.
Or so I thought. When Manny and I showed up the next day, the relationship had obviously been taken to a higher level. "Hey early bird," said the guy with the genuine smile. I felt trapped, but, always polite, I smiled. "What does your husband think about you getting up so early?" I almost burst out laughing, but I held back from explaining that he really couldn't give a shit since he doesn't live with me and, by the way, he's no longer my husband. I just said he doesn't mind, and drove off.
So this morning I am back at Starbucks, and the old gang is all here, and we shared an uncomfortable laugh about the police who are now occupying themselves ticketing folks who leave their cars running while they dash in for their coffee. Even the law abiding fire chief thought it to be an odd waste of law enforcement time. Especially since, as I pointed out, there are always serious crimes happening here, like when non-White people pass through and need to be escorted out of town.
A little distance has been good for us here at Starbucks. After the brief moment of bonding, we all went back to what we were doing, and studiously avoided even looking at each other. Absence has softened the stifling bonds of commitment, and I'll hang around for a while until things start getting too serious.
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