Joe rolled out of bed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair and dressed. Walking into the kitchen he popped two slices of bread into the toaster and made two poached eggs. Filling his orange juice glass a second time, he smacked his lips on the tangy liquid. Homemade strawberry jam from the freezer, and he was all set to face another day at his humdrum job at the factory. He packed his lunch everyday, consisting of three sandwiches on white bread: peanut butter, cheese and bologna. An apple for dessert and a thermos of coffee completed his fare and he climbed into his 1967 VW beetle and drove to work.
Mike pushed the alarm for the second time, feeling rather sick after a long night at the club, dancing, drinking, and flirting. The flirting usually led to a longer night of enjoyment, but there was always that pesky alarm the next day. Mike dragged himself into the shower, shaved, applied too much cologne and donned one of his navy ensembles. Polished shoes always finished the look and he was ready for the day. Stopping by Starbucks for the “usual” triple shot expresso with skim milk and a cranberry scone to be eaten as lunch, Mike returned to his bright red Alfa Romeo and drove to his company on Wall Street.