A Man Alone

I'm a big fan of those "cup o' noodle soup" things. They're terrible for you, but they are tasty and they could hardly be more simple. What more need you do than boil some water and pour it up to the designated line? Even I can manage it, although I've forgotten the water and let it boil all the way down more than once. That is a risk for me, but it is a minor one, as I have learned. There is really only one area that calls for my full attention now.

It's getting the water to that level without going over or spilling. I don't boil precisely the right amount of water. I boil at least a bit more than I need, and probably a lot more. This is to account for the aforementioned problem of vaporizing the water entirely. As a consequence, it is necessary to be quite precise in the pour. Sure, I could include the intermediary step of pouring the water into a measuring cup before pouring it into the noodles, but you know that's not me.

Jarring!

I've always been different, and in adult life have been glad for it. I do my utmost to be distinct and unique, because I believe that in this lies some of my greatest value. I often go my own way even when the commonly done thing is the more sensible. In short, that I should ever adopt the practice of a friend in any matter is pretty remarkable, and yet that is just what I have done. I appreciate that it lessens the rarity of personality that I cherish, but it was worth it.

For some time I have had one mug which I always used for coffee, and an irregular set of cups for other beverages. The assorted cups I liked because they were mainly gifts, some of which trumpet my fondness of the Arizona Cardinals. I stick with them because they were gifts, and I just love that mug, so it says something that I now have switched to something which is not my own idea, or for that matter that I have violated my disinclination to switch anything ever.

Mug Shot

It's no secret that I drink coffee. I don't think I'm at risk of challenging for the world championship of coffee consumption, but I drink it fairly consistently. I have addressed this in the past, but something has escaped notice in the process: the mug. For some people, it may not matter much. To them, the paper cup is as good as anything else. Some heathens may even have some misguided devotion to the paper cup that comes from coffee shops. I wonder how that can be. The paper cup is ephemeral. You receive it with coffee in it already, and it exits your life once that coffee is gone. You share one moment with it, and no more. It knows you only as you are at that moment, in that emotional and mental state. If you are unwell, it will never see you get better. Who could be attached to it, since it's just one cup in a long, endless string of identical ones?

It's not so with a good, real mug. People usually have several, and I do as well, but there's really only one among them for me. I bought it at a thrift store in North Hollywood. It's not easy to say what drew me to it. There are so many there, and a lot of them bring me to the brink of making a purchase, but don't compel me to pull the trigger. This one did. Its design is an interesting variation on the American flag. The chief difference is that it bears the colors red, blue and gray. It doesn't to me look like a professionally designed and manufactured mug. It could well be the product of a gifted shop class student's labors. Washing it is a slight challenge, as its interior has difficult areas to reach. Clearly all of this feeds into a theme. The mug is unique and discarded. In some ways, I identify with it. It's the coffee receptacle for me, and I am the coffee drinker for it. I always use it except when it is utterly unavailable. I wash it no matter how I feel instead of using another, already clean mug.