Put One Foot in front of the Other

I have been known to be set it my ways.  I am not sure when, where or how this phenomenon of “preferred routine” (as I rather look at it) first started, and funny how these type of things kind of creep up on you, especially when you think they are only for “old” people, but they just do.  As a true believer, I am standing up and speaking out in support of the drudgery of the ordinary and mundane.

It shouldn’t be looked at as shameful or aged if it feels good to have a regular habit with a customary pattern.  I tend to think of it as efficient and well organized.  Look how much time can be saved on one activity that can be put towards another for engagement and fulfillment of your less composed pursuits.

Take for example the progression of your normal morning.  If this encompasses, as mine does, the sharing of lavatory facilities with an appreciated, respected and cherished one, the routine becomes poetry in motion...  well, not exactly.  Whoever decided that two people (in love or otherwise engaged) could, should or would want to be in the bathroom together ought to be shot (I digress).  The alarm rings, the first person arises to face the day as their soul mate <begin superdigression…I think this term should be used only during the waking, cognizant hours of the day.  Sleeping (along with the snoring and other assorted sundry bodily reverberations in the company of someone is really the litmus test of love and should be given to all in search of deep devotion and passion…end superdigression> sighs, rolls over and knows that HE (I am just arbitrarily guessing here, that this has a male connotation) has a half an hour more of snooze-time.

Think about it, you get out of bed almost the same way every day; you walk to the bathroom; you turn on the light; you turn on and test the temperature of the water; you visit the porcelain throne; you bundle your jammies and toss them in the hamper; you get in the shower, get wet, shampoo, rinse, shampoo, rinse, suds up, rinse, exit; grab towel; dry self; hang towel up; grab robe; comb hair, look in mirror (sigh and survey); think of putting on slippers; decline thought; contemplate mode of attire for day; head down to the kitchen; start coffee; let dogs out; find newspaper on driveway; figure out what the plan is for breakfast; decide you are not hungry yet and head back to gussy up for the day; gently nudge the sleeping (HEY YOU!, yes, you! Time to get your hog-fat carcass moving! This is used in only the most loving way and very appropriate from the part of the country in which I was brought up); enter closet and discard original thought of what you were thinking of wearing; put plan B into action; notice that there is still no progress from the person having a forty-winks fest; enter bathroom, make enough commotion to raise the dead and realize that there is just the slightest movement occurring from the next shift and realize that if this person doesn’t get a move on, your schedule will be affected with making the bed, breakfast and the list of “honey-do’s” that have been planned for the day; you make a split second decision that will deliver the consequences; implementation process occurs; you wake up the offspring and back to the kitchen for the next sequence of the morning routine.  Scary to think that this fun-filled, flurry of daily activities usually takes place in well under an hour and you have the rest of the day to look forward to.

So, yes, it appears I am set in my ways.  Routine is my friend.  Not that I couldn’t throw caution to the wind and suds up before I shampoo, but why? I think I already have a good thing going. 

Cynthia A. McClelland, curious observer of the obvious with interpretations of the oddities of daily life.  Mother, wife and lover of the furry, resides in the north Lake Tahoe area.                     

Cynthia A. McClelland © 2003-