I mean that quite literally—there are few things in life that make my heart race and bring me closer to the brink of losing my ever-loving mind like an almost-empty milk jug.
The explanation is deceptively simple: I stir skim milk into my Carolina-blue mug of caramel truffle drip coffee every single morning. If you’re the kind of person that channels Snow White when you rise with the sun and greet the day by cheerfully singing songs to small woodland creatures, I salute you. My Mother used to be one of you, and when I was a little girl she’d often wake me up by singing to me. I recognize that this ought to have been one of those precious moments that people make Hallmark cards about, but I’ll have you know that the second I figured out how to start locking my door at night, I did. And we owe our present loving relationship to that sage six-year-old decision of mine.
Y’all. Until my first cup of coffee in the morning, I am hanging on to this world by a gossamer thread and the hopeful gurgle of my coffee pot is my proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. I stumble out of bed convinced that my name is Phyllis, and often refuse to respond to anything else despite the trivial little detail that nobody has yet been notified of the change.
The bottom line here is that coffee is critical to life as I know it. No milk in the morning=no caramel truffle coffee=Ashley behaving something like Cruella Deville from 101 Dalmations. Normally I love a good puppy, but sans coffee I am entirely capable of skinning a small army of them and promptly proceeding to prance around my apartment in my new puppy fur coat singing “Baby I’m a fiiiirreewooorrrkkk!”.
I might recommend staying away from myself before cup number three every morning.
The milk thing is easy enough now that I’m married, given that I do most of the grocery shopping and thus get to decide how much chocolate pie we’re going to eat on any given week [answer: at least one] and whether or not it’s rational to buy two gallons of milk at a time. [It is.] This was NOT always possible when I had roommates who rotated buying milk with me, and didn’t always share my dedication to milk in the mornings. [The HUMANITY!] Kellan and I had a coming to Jesus moment about milk early on in our marriage [though who are we kidding-it’s going to be “early on in our marriage” for quite a while, still], and my heart melted just a teensy bit when I discovered two jugs in our fridge upon my return to Albany on Tuesday.
The man gets me. What can I say? I think it’s one of the sweetest things about marriage, thus far—someone knowing all of your little idiosyncrasies and neuroses, and loving you without a single “unless”. To be both known and loved is beautiful.
Wedded bliss had a close call yesterday afternoon when my husband almost had to hop a plane for an impromptu business trip. Mercifully it was postponed until next week at the last possible second, and so date night is saved! With milk in my fridge and my husband at home, I think we can already declare this weekend a winner. :)