I’m not a morning person. Which is funny because, as I have mentioned, I work nights. The problem most non-morning people have with mornings is having to actually wake up. Considering I spent most of the night awake, you would think this wouldn’t be a problem for me. I would be able to greet the morning, awake, alert, and aware.
Oh, you would think.
I don’t know what it is about mornings. The sun rising, birds singing, people bustling to work–I can’t handle it. I start freaking out. I think I can sense the impending productivity of the day, and I know I will never be (nor was ever) a part of that. I was the slacker in the back of the class who put in the barest minimum of effort in the things she was disinterested in–and work, I am definitely disinterested in.
Currently I’m at Starbucks, and I’m enjoying a latte. It was an arduous road to get to the actual enjoyment, because I, like the genius I am, spilled it. I created quite a spash zone, too, if I may say. It’s about a head shorter than I am, and I’m 5’5″ (okay, 5’4.5″… shut up).
I heard the cup hit. I heard the liquid splash. I sat at my table, mortified. And then I looked around, unsure of what to do. Do I leave my computer at the table to get someone? Do I pack everything up? What if they see me packing up? Will they think that I’m running away from my mess? Because I’m not. I jst really don’t trust the 45-year-old in the jorts he cut too short and sideways baseball cap around my belongings.
I compromised. I left my water and my croissant at the table (and, unbeknownst to me, my phone, which proves how panicky I was, because that thing is my baby) and went to the cashier.
The very cute cashier, who must have just come in, because he totally wasn’t there before. Of course. I had a good night. I was happy about this fact. And then God laughed. “IT’S MORNING NOW. AHAHAHAHA.”
I went with my usual approach towards any reasonably attractive human: self-deprication. “Hi! I was a genius, and I spilled my coffee, so if there’s, like, a rag or something I can have…” He send out someone to clean up my mess. I sat at the table, more and more feeling five years old. There’s something about watching someone cleaning up a mess you made that will do that to you.
(I think my favorite part of this entire ordeal is the old man that watched this entire thing go down, glower at me in disgust, and then stalked out of the place. My spillage disgusted him so much that he had to leave. I feel strangely accomplished by that.)
I am almost entirely certain this would not have happened at night. There are less people around. Less productivity. My fingers would actually work properly (this is another common morning problem for me). The night is calmer. It’s more casual. The night is a time to be relaxed and unburdened by the day. I much prefer the night.
But the morning, as hectic and frantic as they are, does have some perks.
Starbucks. 10th & Chestnut, Philadelphia, PA. Go out of your way for these people, because they will go out of their way for you. I’m sitting here, sipping a brand new latte, trying to avoid their amused gazes, because, as the girl who interrupted my litany of embarrassed apologies as she mopped up told me, “It happens every day.”
But hey. At least my corner smells really, really good now.