What is your mission?

Every morning, I go for a walk. Not for exercise, of course, but for a greater purpose—grabbing coffee from the Tim Hortons at the Bridgeport and Weber intersection. My wife knows this all too well. She often says, “If you had saved the money you spend on coffee every day, you could have bought the store by now.” But her words go in one ear and out the other. I mean, how can you put a price on happiness brewed fresh in a Tim’s cup?

Today was no different. I stepped out, braving the biting cold. Waterloo has been a frozen tundra these last few days, and at -12°C, the ice on the sidewalks was as unforgiving as my wife’s coffee lectures. Still, I marched on with purpose, visions of a warm coffee cup fueling my steps.

I made it to Tim’s, ordered my usual, and walked out feeling victorious. Just as I stepped off the curb, my foot betrayed me. It hit a patch of ice so slick it might as well have been glass. My body launched into chaos—arms flailing like a windmill in a storm, legs shooting out from under me as if they had a mind of their own. The coffee flew high into the air, spinning gracefully before gravity yanked it down in a spectacular splash. The bag of donuts took its cue and tumbled to freedom, rolling away like tiny, sugary rebels.

Moments later, I landed hard, sprawled out on the icy pavement while my precious coffee formed a tragic brown puddle beside me. My dignity? It was long gone, probably hiding under the nearest snowbank.

A Tim’s staff member ran out and kindly offered me another coffee. But I declined, muttering something about not wanting to risk a second spill. Defeated and cold, I limped home, replaying the tragic loss of my coffee in my mind.

Once home, I decided to make coffee myself. Surely, I could handle this simple task, right? Wrong. As I reached for my favorite mug, it slipped from my hands and landed in the sink with a loud clang. Thankfully, it didn’t break, but the sound was enough to wake my wife from her deep sleep.

From the bedroom, I heard her groggy, half-asleep voice, heavy with annoyance and dragging like a bear woken from hibernation: “Whaaat are you breaking nooow?” The tone had that perfect mix of exhaustion and irritation, the kind you’d expect from someone forced out of a dream, probably one where I wasn’t the one causing trouble.

Thinking quickly, I replied, “Nothing, honey! I just hit my head on the kitchen island!”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she shot back, her sleepy voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s expired a long time ago. Time to dispose of it anyway.” And just like that, she rolled over and went back to sleep, leaving me standing there, coffee-less and questioning my life choices.

As I stared at the mug in the sink, I realized something: maybe my wife has a point. If I stopped testing gravity and started saving money, I might actually get ahead. But then again, what’s life without a little adventure—and a lot of coffee? My mission now? To dodge the ice tomorrow and avoid adding another chapter to my gravity-testing career.