I hate mornings. My husband is a morning person. I don’t know why. Although I’m pretty sure I did not know that when we got married, because that would have been a deal-breaker.

He gets up immediately when the alarm goes off. I purposely set the alarm an hour ahead so that I can curse at it, hit snooze, and then lay there half-asleep until it goes off again in nine minutes.

He gets up and makes coffee. I’m late since I pushed snooze three extra times, so no coffee unless I remember to set it up the night before on the timer. In other words, no coffee.

He has his clothes set out the night before, usually ironed. My clothes are fished out of the Take-to-Dry-Cleaners basket, lint-rolled to remove (a fraction of the) pet hair, and the front melted. I mean ironed.

He eats breakfast. Like an actual breakfast, with a fork. My breakfast is a half a cookie from the office break room.

He gets up at 6am, to be to work by 8. I get up not a second earlier than 6:30, to be to work at 7.

I really don’t even know what to say other than pass the coffee.