Me? I’m a homebody. I like having my routine. Without serious provocation or enticement, I will get up at the same time, shower in the same water temperature, have the same thing for breakfast and sit down at the desk at the same time to churn out words.
It’s not so much being boring, as getting the little decisions out of the way, so I can sit down and face the big decisions: what is motivating this character? What does she do now?
Or if you prefer, I’m a sorry little woman who lives only vicariously.
Ever since High School I displayed both a passion for routine, and a low boredom threshold. What this meant is that my ideal job was of course one in which I do the same thing every day and it’s always different. Writing is like that, and so are a number of other mind-professions.
If you squint and shake the snow globe, you could say that I’m removing the stress of breaking routine so I can have the stress of creating.
All of which would be true.
The problem is that life doesn’t stay still, and this year (and last) just about the only family member not in a transition/major change situation was younger son. And frankly we’re not at all sure about him, since he’s very introverted and secretive.
What this means for a family that has more or less always lived in each other’s pockets is that not only has my cheese been moved (all of my cheeses, including physical) but also that the movement of everyone else’s cheese is reflected back at me too.
Things I recently found I no longer know how to do include shopping for this family, because we never know if Marsh will be in for dinner or not, and what I cook for a dinner routinely lasts Dan and I two meals. So stuff I bought just sort of accumulates. That’s okay.
This is all made worse by knowing I’m in a temporary location, so I can’t really settle in to a routine.
This is not an excuse for being this late — no, the excuse for being this late is that I was sidetracked to look at house listings, which I’m sooooo tired of doing and which vaguely depressed me — but it’s what I was thinking about, because all of us go through periods like this.
Transition. Things sliding in all directions. You can’t tell what the final configuration will be.
I was sort of okay housewise, while I thought I knew where we’d be moving. Not okay, but far less stress than having no idea where we’ll end up or what configuration.
But then, in these transitions, and leaving aside the house matter, that is often the essence. And when you think you know how things will end, it’s often not so. I.e. I know I thought Robert moving out would play out a different way. I both miss him more and less than I expected, and the change gives us BOTH a chance to grow in different directions.
Transitions are needed because often people like me get ossified into a routine and don’t even notice it doesn’t fit them anymore. No, you do what you’ve always done.
They are difficult, because breaking routine is difficult.
But as I deal with this unusually prolonged house search, the hope I hold onto and what has been true more than once in these transitions, is that on the other side of all this mess there will be a new, can’t dream it yet, and even more satisfying routine for me.
One that will allow me to put up blog posts on time, natch.
Girl can dream.