It was an accident. I didn’t mean to go black last week, as I found myself in a momentary state of confusion, adrift and insecure about where my life was taking me. I was simply too preoccupied to notice that I was about to go black. Going black never crossed my mind up to that point.
To suddenly go black, bucked years of tradition.
And yet, there I was, unknowingly taking those first steps towards going black.
Halfway into going black, it began to occur to me that something didn’t feel right about this experience. It didn’t feel wrong, it just wasn’t what I was used to.
“This is different,” I remember thinking. “This experience is far more invigorating.” It almost took my breath away.
Halfway through the experience I suddenly realized that I had, in fact, gone black. There was no shame or remorse, nor was there a sense of mischievousness and excitement. It had simply occurred to me unexpectedly as if by accident. “Whoa,” I said to myself. “I went black this morning!”
It felt as if I should’ve gone black years ago. It felt natural.
The right thing to do was confess to my wife that I had unknowingly gone black and that it felt too good to go back.
“Are you sure there is no going back?” she asked me.
No. On that April morning, I was all in for going black, never to go back.
I’m a changed man, exuding an air of confidence and machismo. I sympathetically wink at everyone not going black. I easily spot my other black-going compatriots. We speak without words. We march to the beat of our own drum.
I encourage anyone who will listen to give black a try.
These days I go black twice a morning.
Would I encourage my kids to go black? Of course, but not yet.
They’re both way too young for coffee.