Monday morning

Sometimes I realize some things will never change. I set down my coffee, open up my planner, and gather up my legs beneath me into the ol' criss-cross (hint: that'll never change). hands not in spaghetti sauce, however, because I'm no longer listening to someone explain the months of the year or the process of metamorphosis, but am reading Nabokov for pleasure and studying for senior written examinations. I begin to eye my old-fashioned glazed donut just minutes after having opened up my textbook, but tell myself no bites until I've taken notes on at least five pages. Guess that nagging childish need for instant gratification has been replaced by something a bit more controlled and wise, luckily for myself and everyone involved.

Five pages in. I cap my pen, set it down, and eye the donut. I've become much more mindful regarding my food in the past year or two (Paris didn't hurt). I bring the plate to my face and inhale deeply, as if I were smelling a bouquet of a dozen red roses which a) I have never actually received, and b) even if I had, I wouldn't smell them because I have a mild phobia of big flowers near my face. I breathe the donut essence in and am almost ready to consume BUT first I have to look at it. I have to see it. And I suppose, in a way, it has to see me. Before my oversized front teeth break that crisp, then gelatinous glaze, we must come to a mutual understanding, this donut and I. I, dear donut, am about to consume you. Thank you, donuty essence, for being what you are: inviting, imperfect, intoxicating.

And now, let's go.