I fumble over yesterday’s dishes to get to the coffee. Why cupboards are always built for giants remains a mystery to me, along with why women’s restrooms are always further away than men’s. The skim milk tastes ghastly, but it’s less fatal than a heart attack, and the toast glistens with honey before I attempt to chew and type at the same time. The keys get sticky and the dishwater caffeine wash away the worst of the wine hangover. They seem to last so much longer these days, but not nearly as long as the guilt over being that loud girl at the party again. And here I was thinking I’d matured over the years.
There was a moment Saturday night where I felt that old reckless itch to get on a table and belt out songs from the Supernatural soundtrack, to pack my crap and mission to India to see the sights and smoke the local flavours. But the itch is just a ghost of a longtime teenage fantasy to be famous, to be noticed for doing something spectacular. I’ve long since reached the realisation that I am ordinary, and doomed to do ordinary things, like drink unpalatable coffee at six in the morning before heading to school to wipe cheeky noses and encourage inspired dreams. I leave for work through the kitchen door, my long blond hair warm and comforting with the smells of vanilla, cinnamon, and chocolate chips.