Monday

Of all the advice I've consumed about optimizing your life, I've never heard anyone recommend starting your day with a big hunk of fried chicken and a biscuit, all smothered in sausage gravy. But it’s 9:30 on a Monday morning, and here we are.

I’m carrying some guilt alongside my appetite as I look for a parking spot. How is it 9:30 already? How am I not at work yet? How did I convince myself to stop for breakfast? That guilt is amplified as I pass some electricians trying to wire new exterior lights on this bitter morning. They’re working. Shouldn’t I be?

I planned on getting breakfast to go, but when I see the scale of the “sandwich” through the clear takeout box, it’s obvious I’d better sit down. This is knife-and-fork food, not something you eat one-handed while steering. Definitely not with a newly acquired pit bull riding shotgun.

I sit at the counter in front of a large mirror and watch myself eat. Maybe it’s better Eliza and I sit side by side for dinner each night, sparing her this view. Beyond my reflection, I can see the electricians outside, their faces red from the cold.

I recognize one of them. It’s Lucas. Not someone I know well, but well enough to intensify the guilt I feel about sitting inside eating a hearty meal this late in the morning.

I stayed up the night before and watched the Patriots play and win their first playoff game in years. I don’t feel guilty about that. This morning I sat on the couch for an extra cup of coffee with Vim, that hungry mutt now waiting in the car. I don’t feel guilty about that. It snowed last night. One of my winter duties is shoveling out Brenda, our neighbor across the street. I don’t feel guilty about that.

I ate faster than normal. The fried chicken was surprisingly good at that hour. And I felt strange knowing Lucas was, unbeknownst to him, a witness to a less-than-best version of myself.

With one last dip of the biscuit in the gravy, it was time to go to work.