The Value of Routine for Making Life Comfortable
The worst part of moving is the disruption in the day-to-day
After my brother-in-law Paul died of colon cancer, my older sister Sherry became unmoored for a while. They had been married since she was in high school; she had never done life alone.
She had never paid the bills or made the phone calls. Her days became shapeless, filled with frightening new tasks and the prospect of a future lived alone.
At the time, I really didn’t understand what she meant when she talked about life settling down, “establishing a new routine.” For her, peace was found in a daily routine. As a twenty-something, and even into my early thirties, I scowled at the thought.
I was spontaneous and free. Who needs — or wants — a routine?
As it turns out, forty-seven-year-old me does. I moved right before Christmas, and now I just can’t remember how my morning’s supposed to go. At first, I was living out of a suitcase, my mattress on the floor of a room that wasn’t mine. Now I’m in my room (such as it is), and I just can’t seem to get myself out of bed at a consistent time, no matter how hard my cat bites my fingers and pats my lips with his claws.
My coffee-making routine is discombobulated, too. Before I moved, I always readied the pot at night so that all I needed to do in the morning was turn it on. Now I just can’t seem to remember. I find myself most mornings trying to make coffee in a dark kitchen so as not to wake my sister and her husband, who sleep with their bedroom door open like savages (they’re in the only hot room in the whole house).
Part of the issue is that I now live with other people, people who disrupt my routine with their own inconsistencies. This morning, my brother-in-law was in the shower at 5:30. Does he have an appointment this morning? Was he just wide awake and decided to give up on sleep and take his shower? There’s no rule that says a man has to take his shower at the same time every day, but when one is sharing a bathroom with other people, a little consistency is appreciated. One morning his inconsistency meant I couldn’t get into the bathroom to brush my teeth before work — I found toothpaste in the other bathroom and used my finger as a toothbrush.
There’s safety in routine. Comfort. Who knew middle age would make me crave predictability? I want to open my eyes in the morning and run through my day in my head before my feet hit the floor. I like to know where I’m going and how to get there.
It’s getting better. I have my own space now (such as it is). The cats are all together again, filling my space with hisses. Last night, instead of watching television with my sister and brother-in-law, I sat in my own space and read, which is the shape my evenings have been wont to take. The routine is beginning to form, slowly.
