My Mondays start on Sundays.
As I write, I’m running through a list of the musts for the day ahead, top of which are the emails to fire and eats for the next meal. The blues are, thankfully, nowhere to be seen. I’ve kicked my nocturnal norms and gladly embraced early nights and equally sprightly mornings.
There’s something sexy and alive about the stirring skies—from the first rays of amber, the placid energy all around to the simple luxury of making eggs for breakfast. I relish each morning I rise before the sun does, to watch it grace the heavens. I delight in arriving at my desk early, to snag a slow start and heartfelt chats with fellow early risers. It’s almost speakeasy in so many senses of the word—conversation waltzes freely, and we speak of things otherwise outlawed or unwise.
Most of all, I love breakfasts with Dad, on mornings he takes days off but rises earlier than usual—for that steaming bowl of noodles, and an hour of bliss.