You Better Let Somebody Love You

Come Down from Your Fences

I was awake before the alarm again. I had always been an early riser, even when I didn't have any particular reason to be, but lately I had been waking earlier than usual. Finally, after it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I decided to just get up. There were a few weeks of school left and although the children were old enough to generally manage their own time, mornings were still a challenge.

My feet hit the cold marble of the bathroom floor causing the usual slight shiver to run through my body. The sensation was always more invigorating than uncomfortable, like diving into a pool. I quickly made myself just presentable enough to go through my early morning routine and started downstairs. I doubled back and switched off the alarm clock so it wouldn't wake my wife. I wasn't worried about disturbing her sleep, she wasn't lacking rest, I was preserving my alone time, easing into my day in peace.

Thanks to a complex series of programs and timers all called Simple this or Smart that, the house was already buzzing with activity. The oven was pre-heating, the coffee was brewing, even the dogs' bowls had been filled. My assigned daily task is to make breakfast. Today, like most mornings, that meant removing a pyrex baking dish from the refrigerator, vigorously stirring a gelatinous mix of egg whites and mystery vegetables and putting it in the already perfectly heated smart oven. And like most mornings, I disregarded the explicit instructions, gave the container a quick shake, and put it in the oven, confiding to the dogs that I'd rather starve than eat whatever the hell that was.

I made my way to the coffee pot. My coffee pot. My wife doesn't only refuse to drink from it, she refuses to allow it on the counter -- which she insists on calling The Coffee Bar -- unless in use. Every night, before our Domestic Assistant (yes, that is another preferred title) leaves, she places a different but equally unappealing dish in the refrigerator, enables all of the appropriate Smart things and then retrieve my very old, very un-Smart coffee maker known as "The Relic" from its cabinet and programs it to brew my usual half pot. Today, as I stood staring at the slow drip, I thought again that maybe it was time to give in, toss The Relic in the trash, and just drink the obscenely expensive tar that will soon magically begin grinding and brewing in the adjacent machine, that looks more like belongs in a high tech lab than on a Coffee Bar, where it is allowed to sit all day long.

I filled my usual mug, and followed my usual path. First, to the panel where I disarmed the security system, and opened the gate at the foot of the driveway, for the return of the domestic cavalry. Then I ushered the dogs outside, retrieved the newspaper and made my way along the side of the house, toward the back yard. As expected, my son's car was absent. On the other hand, my daughter's car was in the middle of the car port. It looked like it hadn't been parked, but rather she had just decided to stop driving. Even in the dim light, I saw yet another new dent and just sighed.

I took my usual spot at the table next to the pool, where lighting was just bright enough to read and I was a safe distance from the smart sprinklers that quickly and discreetly doused the assorted flower beds around the yard. It's not easy, or cheap, to maintain picture perfect landscaping in a perpetual drought.

While the dogs half heartedly chased a squirrel, I half heartedly skimmed the headlines. When I finally took the first sip of coffee, I felt that familiar warmth that ironically was as welcome and reassuring as the cold tile had been.

When Kristen and I finally moved in together, the almost new coffee maker was christened "The Relic" not because of its age, but because along with my mug, it was just about the only surviving artifact from my past to be allowed in the new house. Although I argued that it was just wasteful to discard a new, top of the line machine, I had no such argument for the mug. The compromise was that both had to be kept out of sight. Of course the argument was just as symbolic and superficial as the compromise. I didn't care about the cost any more than she cared about the aesthetic vibe of the kitchen -- she was not yet a design expert-- she was happy to partake in the lifestyle my past afforded me, but she wanted no evidence of it in the house. She was going to accept that my past was still my present, but only as long as it benefitted her.