I wake up early.
The sun is bright.
Part of me wants to stay in bed.
I ignore it.
It's easy to ignore.
It's five in the morning.
I unplug my laptop and carry it to the one spot in the house that gets wifi.
My breathing stops. It makes no difference, I know that. But I still stop it. I hold my breath. Just like I breathe out if I take a long exposure shot with my camera. Just like, I've been told, I'd pull the trigger of a rifle on a hunt.
And then I check the Red Sox score.
You see, if I hold my breath, then they can't have lost the night before. And if they do, well, I might have grabbed a scrap of air when I shouldn't have. Superstitious? Hell yes. It is baseball, after all.
This morning it wasn't sunny, and it was seven. I had to be in work by ten and I debated about whether or not I should go for a run. The haar was in off the Firth. Pirate ghosts wandered the fields around the house and the running path beside the loch. My bed wanted me back in it. I didn't want to go for a run. I held my breath and checked the score.
Red Sox 10, Angels 1.
I went for my run. It's going to be a good season.