I’m ashamed to say that breakfasts are sort of an afterthought in this household. If there was a candid camera sneaking around here in the mornings, we’d be in the hall of shame for certain. I start my mornings, early, with a glass of water and lemon (thanks, Winnie!). I shuffle out in my bathrobe and sit, glass of water in hand, while I sift through various emails, make a list of things to do for the day, and generally try to wake up. Each morning, I compile relevant press links for a client, put together a social media strategy for the day. I do it early on because I like to free up the rest of my day to work on books, on writing, on having some flexibility with my schedule. And it’s perhaps because mornings are so packed with activity, that everything: exercise, breakfast, showering, often falls by the wayside.
Lately, in particular, as I was rushing to the finish line with Marc Murphy’s book (it’s been submitted! fireworks! fanfare! celebratory cocktails!) breakfast was, well, it didn’t exist period. I’d realize by about 11am that I was so hungry I couldn’t see straight, and I’d lunge into the kitchen and try to make myself a smoothie (very good), a piece of toast (good, but was getting old), or a few slices of cheddar cheese with an apple (also very good). But did I make myself a proper breakfast? No.