A Fresh Pot of Coffee
I’ve learned the hard way that I’m worth it. Even in the little things. Especially in the little things.
I’m worth enough to make myself a fresh damn pot of coffee. Even though there’s half a pot left. And it’s still warm in the carafe.
I don’t have to wait for the weekend away or the spa day. Or even the occasional manicure.
I wanted to relate a poignant memory of my mom’s self care and make some brilliant analogy to my own. But I couldn’t think of any. Not one.
She was seventy-two and I forty-one when she died. You’d think that forty years of memories would have turned up one example. Like how she made a special trip to the Rexall drug store to buy a new lipstick rather than sneaking it in with the weekly groceries. Or how she treated herself to salon hair color once a year instead of the Clairol chestnut brown at home. But not one story.
I’ll be right back. Coffee’s done.