It's 6am. I've awoken an hour earlier than my typical wake-up call.
I'm not one of those people who base their personality around the fact they're an early riser. I like my sleep. A lot.
But I'm happy to wake up a little earlier. I gleefully set my alarm to 'get loud' the night before.
I have an important appointment with a special lady.
I'm waking up for Jennifer Lopez. I am joining the superstar for an intimate press conference with... well, probably a hundred other journalists around the world.
But it feels like there are only two of us in the (virtual) room. It's me and Jenny from the Block.
There's always been something divine, something otherworldly about Jennifer Lopez. Whether it's her inability to age, her perfectly proportioned face potentially sculpted by angels, or her innate gift to seamlessly straddle music, film and fashion better than literally anyone else.
In order to greet her, I feel possessed to bathe in a tub of her fragrance Glow in order to be worthy to be in her presence. I do shower (not in Glow, but I do a quick spritz of a celebrity adjacent scent) and prepare for the day.
I've learned that J.Lo typically begins each day with a protein shake compiled from strawberries, blueberries, Greek yogurt, cinnamon, honey, and lemon juice. I crawled out of bed like a grumpy troll emerging from under a bridge, poured myself a coffee from my ALDI pod machine and dropped a couple of pieces of Woolies white bread in my toaster.
I'm ready to meet Jennifer Lopez.
But Jennifer Lopez is not ready to meet me.