A morning's prerequisite: Pt. 1
Ahhh … fall. The time of year where majestic trees turn to stunning but subtle paroxysms of color in orange and yellow hues eventually cascading downward to wrestle amidst the crisp, clear, often mumbling wind.
No, wait. That’s Oregon. What am I thinking …
Ahh … fall. The time of year where lusterless plastic bags and long forgotten Smith’s receipts crepitate through swift currents of dirt and debris hurled quick enough and cold enough to frost bite and sandblast simultaneously.
Much better.
Flip flops are not always desirable on brisk Monday mornings, but mochas are, and flip flops are the path of least resistance when anything else would require getting legitimately dressed.
It is a conceivable possibility that by this 8:00 hour there are emails in my Outlook. In fact, on this A.M., there may be small, rampant, corporate fires requiring attention not unlike the current state of Southern California. But this is my time. The time before work starts…the time in which to relax and attempt to set the tone for all of the unavoidable pandemonium that will be happening later today. And this day happens to require a mocha from across the street.
Even this early, Smith’s is bustling and my long walk from the back of the parking lot reminds me what’s missing on the upper half of my feet. Once inside I realized I was unaware it’s entirely possible to complete someone’s transaction without even looking in their direction, but the Starbucks woman never fails to amaze me. I think next time I’ll come in with a hockey mask and see what develops.
Near the exit, two sets of sliding doors create sort of a purgatorial fair for shoppers happening in or out, contemplating attractions such as coupon boards, Redboxes, and an assortment of other items. For a brief second I pause to take in a delectable sip of my morning mocha, coming to terms with the fact that once I walk through those doors all hell breaks loose, so to speak, and work must again become something I’m required deal with.
The loud, metal bang of a shopping cart haphazardly returned to its corral quickly shifted my attention. Noticing the entrance doors behind me, I took another look at the exit doors in front of me.
“You can make it.” I heard something whisper. “Turn around, make a run for it. No one will ever find you in there.”
True. I conceded.
But something deep down objected. With a sigh, I realized, it’s time to go.
Precocious entrepreneur, workaholic and a rabid perfectionist Crystal Starlight knows a thing or two about getting ahead at a young age. Email her at [email protected]