"And this morning, the porridge was not burnt..." ~ Jane Eyre

Its the kind of Sunday morning where the grey sky and rain patters should inspire you to go back to sleep, but you rise at 7am regardless, throwing on grey sweats and a grey hoodie in order to be somewhat presentable to the two Indian men at the corner smoke shop who you see every Sunday morning when you purchase The New York Times and a $2 scratch-n-win lottery ticket. The two brothers are still half asleep at this hour, so your regular discussions about your shared love of Indian cuisine, such as tandoori chicken and curried vegetables, do not happen today. Instead, you grab the thick paper and one of the brothers comments on how heavy it is today. You know this already and have been eager for this morning's paper because in it is The Fall Fashion of the Times. Its the kind of Sunday morning where you are a little depressed making coffee because you think about drinking chicory coffee in New Orleans back in 2004 with your best friend and now you wonder if Cafe du Monde, though open, will ever have the same feel to it as it did when you scarfed down beignets which led to the outer corners of your mouth being covered in powdered sugar. Its so early that NPR has not even started their Weekend Edition, instead there is baroque music on. You light a green tea scented candle and throw yourself on your couch in your library and begin digging into the paper, fingertips blackened already just from flipping the main section's pages. By the time you get to the magazine, you are depressed all over again since their is a photojournalism piece on the child victims/survivors of Katrina and you begin to worry about one of the completely fractured parts of their lives: their education. This reminds you that you still have not solidified the final syllabi for your courses which start a week from this Wednesday, and only half of you cares because you know, from experience, that half of your kids will take the Sparknotes route anyway because they can't be bothered. Its the kind of morning where you boil some eggs for an egg salad sandwich this afternoon, thrilled that a 1/4 cup of egg salad made with non-fat mayo is low points on the Weight Watchers scale. Diligence is key, especially after looking at the models in the Fashion of the Times and trying to accept that skinny jeans and leggings are back in style. You won't be wearing either, because its the kind of morning where you remind yourself that at your lowest weight, you still have hips. The new "It" girls of the Middle East featured in today's magazine also have hips, so you feel a little more validated being that you are Armenian. Its the kind of morning that is rare for a Sunday in August, wet and a bit cold, so you become inspired to roast chicken for dinner tonight along with baked potatoes and green beans. Though it feels like football could be on, you check the schedule on the YES Network and hope the Yanks win today against the Angels and Boston loses to Seattle. Six ahead is a nice, even number. Its the kind of morning where you have no intention of changing out of your sweats and white tank anytime in the near afternoon, and you continue reading the Travel section of the paper which highlights the real Bali Hai, a place you will always revere because it inspired the song "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Out of My Hair." Its the kind of morning where you pull your thick, dark curls into a pile on your head, clasped with two long, black chopsticks, and contemplate taking an afternoon nap because you woke up so early...