Every Sunday morning has a similar routine. I wake up. Earlier now than before. This seems to be key. I make a pot of coffee. I don't always drink it. I love the smell.
Next, I hit the concrete. iPod playing. Usually. Sometimes I leave the electronics at home. I have grown to love the crows at City Park. Every sound they make seems important. Recently I realized how predatory they are. I put a few miles on my slightly bowed legs. The length varies but the result it the same. It all depends on how much shit I need to outrun (job, family, illness, money, women... same stuff we all have. Not complaining).
As I hit my front door, I start to peel away the layers of clothing, which I almost always overestimate. The coffee now tastes as good as it smells. My tap water, magically, seems 20 degrees colder. The stereo is playing louder that it should be.
Now, I grab my trusty barbershop knockoff. I shave my head down to that glorified 5 o'clock shadow that I have grown accustomed. Minutes later, I slap my head a few times as I gaze into the mirror, like something I saw in movie once.
It's now 9am. My chest literally swells with excitement. I might be seen jumping for reasons I can't explain. The combination of endorphins, caffeine, guitar, and a freshly shaved head is a buzz alcohol can't touch. I'm not sure if this is normal, but I hope so. Nothing in the world can stop me. I actually believe this. At least for a few minutes.
The day can vary greatly from here (but probably not as much as I'd like to believe). A destination-less drive. Maybe some writing. Lunch with a friend. Later, maybe a drink with another.
The previous week is now a distant memory, but I remember that I have a lot to be thankful for. Hopefully I'll keep that in mind.
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