My alarm clock has an annoying feature, the volume of the beep increases the longer you ignore it. I’ve set it for 4am so I can hit the road to a client 1.5 hours away. It’s cold and foggy outside and while I know I’ll arrive an hour and a half early, I want to beat the traffic that will turn a 1.5 hour trip into a 2.5 hour nightmare.
So my screeching alarm forces me to click the switch down and I stumble through the shower and dressing, grab the briefcase and computer and I’m outside blowing steam into the frosty air. It’s dark and none of the lights are on in my neighborhood.
An hour and a half later, I sit in a local diner half listening to the old men poke fun at each other. A group I see every time I’m there, probably meet later in the day for beers at the Moose Club or the VFW. I imagine that they must meet every morning for bacon and eggs – and probably have for 30 or more years since their kids grew up and moved on.
I drink too much coffee, eat my breakfast, read the local paper for anything newsworthy that may be on the mind of my client, and use the lavender-scented restroom. There’s a doily and shell-encrusted knick-knack on the top of the toilet. Someone cares enough to make people feel at home – someone’s home.
Off to meet with my client for a couple of hours, then on to another one and hope to be done by 3PM to beat the traffic home again, or it’s going to be 7 before I get home. Life on the road as a freelance grant writer.
Now that’s sexy.