Finding comfort in rituals

I like my coffee every day around 11 a.m. That may seem late for a coffee break, but I start the work day at 10. By 11, I'm no longer damp from the walk to work, I'm up to speed on the latest news and I'm still a little groggy from the Tylenol p.m.

I spend almost $2 every day on this ritual. If I saved a few weeks' worth of coffee money, I could invest in a fancy maker and bring my own cup to work. I'd rather throw away money every Monday through Friday.

There's something comforting about having a ritual, whether it's reading the newspaper with your breakfast, reading at night before you go to bed, meeting the girls for brunch on Sundays. I look forward to rituals.

This past year -- when it wasn't Lent season -- I would go to Cupcake every Sunday morning and get a frosted pull apart, ginger pear scone or some kind of Danish. And on weekdays after my in-depth reporting class, my friend Anna Leisa and I would get coffee with crappy lids from D'Amico's. If I felt a little daring, I might get a muffin or snickerdoodle cookie. (I'm now realizing my rituals are usually associated with food or coffee)

I look forward to these rituals and, without them, I feel lost. It's not obsessive compulsive. It's a sense of belonging, regularity, normalcy in the crazy world of entering adulthood.

I like my coffee. With a little skim milk and three packs of caloree-free sugar. Every day at 11.