Really it’s my own fault. No one ever told me “hey, drink the crappy old coffee, you don’t deserve fresh good coffee” actually, quite the contrary. On more than one occasion Mr. Mango has come right out and asked why I subject myself to that sludge when smooth black silk is available in a few minutes after a few swishes and the press of a button (or the careful and precise use of the French press mmmm).
Now I could pull on a bunch of psycho-babble-bullshit data to make statements like ‘we take out of life what we think we deserve’ or ‘depression leads us to crave the less than desirable’ but I’m not going to. Certainly those things can be true and I bet if you took a lot at my life you’d find a lot of prime examples. My coffee drinking habits simply aren’t one of them.
To put it plainly. I’m too damn tired, sore, stiff and overwhelmed first thing in the morning to do anything more than necessary. That means that pressing the ON button (to reheat the already stale coffee Mr. Mango had freshly made an hour or so earlier) is my go to option and I have no shame in admitting I will nurse the rest of that pot until it is gone.
This morning is different. Last night while putting away supper leftovers, making children’s lunches, cleaning the kitchen and tidying up before settling down for the night, I prepared the coffee maker for MY morning coffee. That meant when I pressed that bright red button, it was I enjoying the best of the morning’s dark brew with the sun’s bright early rays moments later.
Fresh coffee may not seem like much to some (or maybe others may think I’ve been crazy putting up with reheated filth for so long…) but at this point, concentrating on something positive at the moment seems like a fine idea. You see, Mr. Mango has again left on business, this time for two weeks and while I’m sure I’ll still be glad I have 1/4 less Mango-child to clean up after, I do find even after one night, I miss the stupid bastard already.
It’s not that we’re doing much better in the emotional arena. Hell, we’ve mastered the “we’ll talk about it later”…. and then never talk about it again. It doesn’t mean we aren’t still amused by each others presence or deeply in love (even if it’s what you could call dysfunctional). I have actively tried harder to stand up for myself and my right to not be treated like a maid/stripper/chef hybrid…. and I think it’s had an impact. At the very least I know I’m making my non-illness needs and desired treatment more known and I believe that’s been neglected for a long time.
Two weeks is a long time for a family to be missing the man of the house. It’s also quite a while to get used to fresh steamy nectar of the java gods all to myself. I have a feeling… after this two weeks is up this Mango Mama is going to be rewarding herself for making it through the weeks in tact (we’re being hopeful here) with a brand new personal (but full size, don’t misinterpret) coffee maker. That way when the Mr. finally makes his way back home I don’t ever have to go back to the old crap.
Every morning will start with ‘hello darkness my old friend….’