I have a strict morning routine. I wake up and immediately begin a series of bending exercises, leg kicks and Lamaze-kwondo.
After that I meditate in the park for three hours, take a nap, and then stare at the baked goods inside my local Starbucks. At 7 a.m., when I return home, I admire my collection of Gary Busey memorabilia, and then rub lemon peels on my inner thighs.
The routine is a reward in and of itself, an escape from the harsh realities of life, but what comes at the end makes it all worthwhile. In front of a full length mirror, dressed in freshly ironed cargo shorts, I slowly eat a pint of McConnell’s fine ice cream. Not a bite; a pint.
My fastest time is one hour and fifty-three minutes. But finishing quickly is not important, despite the notoriety I get on the line. I would rather savor the experience, feel the creamy delicacy in my mouth.
When I’m at my job as a school bus driver and the kids are eating Tide Pods, I often close my eyes and think of my morning routine, aka my happy place; the meditation, the lemon peels. Most important of all, the pint of McConnell’s, how it slides down my throat.