Simbly Bored

Disclaimer: I wrote about this article article a few years ago. I forgot to link to the article this time around. But anyway, here’s a rant that’s not about the quote as much as how much I hate, hate having people around at breakfast.

I’m quite far behind on my reading but I think it’s time I read a bit of Sartre.

Now, on to business. Why do I think having other people at breakfast is as horrifying as hell itself? Because I’m neither a morning person, nor a people person. I’m an introvert. I can hear the snickers. A person who can rarely be shut up, an introvert? A person who can deliver longer monologues and soliloquies than Hamlet himself? (don’t my blog posts count as soliloquies? They used to until the Ladiej gang happened!) But there’s a reason I talk as much as I do. Sometimes, I just talk because I’m afraid that if I don’t, I’ll actually have to listen. In fact, I’m at my ebullient, chatty, best when I meet new people. And all the while, I’m also at my misanthropic best, wondering why I have to meet any people, let alone people I don’t know.

Hmm… There I go reinforcing stereotypes that introverts are misanthropes. But really, sometimes, I just speak for myself. Not for a larger community. Not for women, Indian wives, feminist Indian wives, introverts, psoriasis sufferers, grad school drop-outs, former hair highlighters, Hindustani to Carnatic converts, we-do-intend-to-exercise-ers, and all the other labels I that might be applied to me. But there I go digressing again. Why is it so hard to describe hell at breakfast? Poor Sartre, he must have had a terrible time just explaining himself to every idiot one who asked him why he said what he did (I’m sure he must have explained what he meant to a few people more than he wanted to).

So, coming back. For me, hell must be something like having other people at breakfast. Not you Hero. You’re always welcome. I can’t keep you out of your own house, can I? I love having breakfast with you. No, really. I love having breakfast with my husband. In the last three years, we rarely ate together and I regret that. It’s the most pleasant feeling in the world to start your day with the one person you enjoy being with the most. Yes, yes, love-shouve too. It’s the way to start the day. With fresh food, a cup of strong coffee, silence, smiles, no compulsion to be polite. Messy or neatly dressed. No pressure to make polite enquiries, just a familiarity that ensures a good start to the day. A bit of news (for him), or a bit of M.S Amma’s Bhaja Govindam (for me). It’s a sort of gentle easing into the day.

Breakfast sets the tone for how the rest of the day will follow. On days when I only have time to grab a cup of milk, I know everything’s going to be rushed. And not just that, I’m going to be hungry and cranky too. On days when I have time to make idlies and chutney, I know there’s something I’m trying to avoid getting to. There’s no point putting in that kind of effort just to make breakfast. The perfect day would be when I wake up with just enough time to make idlies, get some sort of chutney out of the fridge, have some coffee, hum a little, set lunch and dinner cooking, have a leisurely breakfast, pack lunch and head to wherever I’m supposed to be going. Once I know I’m going to be well fed the whole day, and I’ve had time to collect my thoughts, I’m ready to face the day.

What happens when there are other people at breakfast? I have to talk to them before I’m ready to. It’s not just that. I see them and remember things I don’t want to remember. Things people have said that I haven’t gotten over yet, things I’m obliged to do for them, looks of disapproval, small talk, judgement of my cooking (or lack of it), well meaning words of advice, admonitions that I might be late, things I’m just not ready to hear yet. I end up talking just so others won’t. Way before I’m ready to face people. And I have to spend the rest of the day recovering from breakfast. Quite the opposite of what I was hoping breakfast would do for me. And it’s all a mess. It’s like having permanent PMS. Poor me!

I can think of nothing worse than consistently having other people in my home, forced to have breakfast with them every single morning. Forced to face them, or at least think about them, the first thing every single morning – reminded of the intrusion into my space. Forced to think about other people’s preferences before I think of my own. Forced to think about obligations, duty, responsibilities, manners, anything other than myself. Denied the right to privacy, the comfort of routine, the luxury of a cup of coffee…

I can think of nothing worse than other people at breakfast. Unless of course, it’s breakfast all alone…