The chaos of college is thrilling; finally having the ability and the power to take any path without having to ask permission first is something that never gets old. We are always warned to not let the freedom get to our head, but here we are letting the freedom make our decisions, choosing not to listen to that gibberish. I mean the rush we get from getting ice cream at 2 a.m. when we have an 8 a.m. class the next morning can never be truly understood. What can I say- we are just silly. It’s something LAME we could never get away with in high school, so now it’s suddenly irresistible to try when in college. Gotta mark it off the bucket list am I right? But for real, with all these random outings to random places, far-off or near, absurdly safe or absolutely reckless, there seems to linger a feeling of emptiness. It’s on the Sunday nights that I tend to find myself missing home the most. Missing the spaghetti squash dinner we would have at the end of every week. When we’d sit around the table conversing, while simultaneously trying to get the perfect amount of spaghetti on our forks (you know just enough to fit in your mouth, but not so much you get sauce all over your face). To be honest, I’ve never been all that great at multitasking. And as exciting as it is to live life doing what you want whenever you want, it is the habitual acts that keep me grounded. It’s the habitual acts that make the most hectic, frustrating weeks stable again. It’s these moments that I continually devote time to every week that hold me accountable. My mind can’t spiral into insanity and be completely lost if I have a habitual act to bring me back to reality at the conclusion of each week. Does this make sense at all?
I’ve really come to appreciate Saturday mornings up here in Flagstaff. Regardless of the sleep deprivation, regardless of the weather, regardless of what took place and what will take place, Tori and I always make time on Saturday morning to get breakfast together at Macy’s (our favorite coffee shop downtown). When I’m struggling to get through the week, it’s always something to look forward to; it gets me through the days when I’m sitting in front of my chemistry book ready to burst into tears. It’s something that I can predict, even when life is being an unpredictable asshole. The weeks where I’m busy from sunrise to sunset, making sweet memories (most likely captured on my polaroid), I still have a breakfast to reflect on the crazy 7 days I conquered. To look back on all of the accomplishments I achieved in those 168 hours. A reminder to grasp those 10,080 minutes in my hands and promise to never let them fly away. It’s a pat on the back because those 604,800 seconds I survived told me that there’s only good things to come in the future.
I think all of us human beings need a Saturday/Sunday morning breakfast tradition. Whether it be with your mom, dad, sister, brother, friend, colleague, that person who lives across the hall– make a tradition. We all need some eggs and avocado toast to keep us in check. To remind us that the tears we shed last night over some stupid boy (or girl) are nothing compared to these beautiful chocolate chip pancakes on our plate. To remind us that the embarassing shit we did last night when we were completely wasted can be giggled away over a strong cup of coffee. To remind us that the 8 page essay we spent all night writing is making this acai bowl taste that much better. And across the table sits your droopy eyed pal, who probably needs this tradition just as much as you do. Who may need a hug or a kiss on the cheek or maybe just a nice, warm breakfast.