People who know and (claim to) love me say that I'm a little foggy in the morning. They suggest, with only the smallest of smiles, that the moments between my emergence from the bedroom and my first sip of coffee are the absolute best time to get me to agree to try camping, become a vegan, or to buy new iPhones for the entire family so none of us ever get lost again (or, if we can't figure out the map feature, at least we'll have music to make the wandering more pleasant). These seem like fine ideas to me first thing in the morning, because really, all I care about at that point is coffee.
My morning routine is quite predictable: Once I have my coffee, I shuffle back into the living room or bedroom, where I sip contentedly while God and I talk over the coming day. He reassures me I don't have to vacation in a tent or subsist on plant life; he tells me to wait a few months until the kinks have been worked out of the iPhone. This is my favorite part of the day, and not much keeps me from it.
Last night, my dear husband told me a secret: when he gets home at night, he can tell where I shuffled with my morning coffee, because I leave a trail of drips on the hardwood floor from the kitchen to wherever I wandered off to. I told him he was wrong. That's silly, I said, slightly indignant. I can't possibly spill that much. Then he lead me on a guided tour of little brown splotches all over our condo, like a google map of "Trish's favorite places."
"Yesterday, you had coffee on the porch," he said, wiping a splash off the back door. Sigh. Busted. Hee :)