The morning shone through the window at about 7:30. Rather, my eyes first peeled about that time, only to meet with a dear blue sky and cool air flowing through the window, cracked open. I rose with a few things on my mind, but the emptiness in my stomach felt most pressing. A few words went to some other folks starting their day as well. She went off to get a cuppa coffee before work; I finally stood up and tackled my to-do list.
I felt good giving myself a carrot for the stick of folding clothes. I staved off hunger as I took my shirts and laid them out. I remembered Joao’s advice- I wouldn’t need a board to fold at home, but then again, I lacked his experience. Insight flew by, the plane taking off to faraway places. I spotted the clipboard under the table and plucked it from under the table. I laid each garment front first, arms splayed. The clipboard went in the middle, about the spine. Each arm came over, crossed on top of the board. Once folded long, I took the bottom half of the tee, and brought to where the clipboard stopped. It formed the crease at the bottom. The excess from that fold went into the “pocket” made by the board’s presence. Tucked in, then board pulled out, I folded my laundry like they did at Old Navy.
The final product pleased me, for space and neatness matters. I repeated the motions, aiming to automate or at least pick up the pace. Gas began to replace my sensation for hunger with emptiness. I wasn’t satisfied yet. I found a stopping point and cleaned up for the morning down the hall, in the bathroom. Time to eat, it felt like my body tapped a watch on its wrist, in the style of a city-slicker in a suit.
Hustling downstairs to the kitchen, I envisioned a blended beverage this morning. Banas frozen, they go first, followed by chunky peanut butter, Hershey’s chocolate syrup and a vanilla nutrition shake or milk. The dream ended when the only blender cup sat occupied in the fridge door. I spotted my dad, chin up and head back slightly reading a PDF. Mentally, I wished him luck and let muscle memory lead me around the kitchen. I cleared the stove top, pulled an empty pan, and coaxed the flame to light. I scraped butter with a spatula into the pain to melt. Frozen waffles would accompany two fried eggs like a couple on a date. Into the toaster then two eggs split and released their contents into the pan. Music seemed to lyricize the process- my phone’s presence and the accompanying audio sharpened my focus on the task. Done in minutes, I played the toasted waffles, now buttered, and syruped as well. The eggs joined browned to a greater crisp, the other soft and pliant. I thought of a few things soft to the touch, but my hunger overcame my distractions. As Rakim started to drop bars, I agreed mentally to follow his advice. Why sweat the technique? The bass bounded as I did up the steps to fold the rest of the clothes upstairs. One guy stood in my way on the road to riches: the man in the mirror.
