I know spontaneity is supposed to be a desirable thing, but I’m realizing I’m a creature of habit with a tendency towards hermitness (hermitage? what is a word for “the condition of being like a hermit” that would fit here?). Every day I wake up and go through the same routine. The dogs wake up about 30 minutes before my alarm goes off and I stumble out of bed, open the bedroom door, and lock them out.
Then my alarm goes off, and, after a 15 minute snooze, I can hear them prancing outside my door. Sometimes I even see little puppy paws and tails in the gap between door and floor. Now, I make no illusions, they’re not happy to see ME. They’re happy that the person who scoops the kibble into their bowls and opens their doggie door is up to serve them. While they scarf their breakfast, I grind coffee beans. While I put the ground coffee into the coffee pot, I watch them out the window. After a quick shower, I sip coffee while listening to the previous night’s podcast of either Rachel Maddow or Keith Olbermann, getting dressed and made up and lunch packed and to-go mug of peppermint tea prepared. I even eat the same thing for breakfast almost every morning: frozen whole grain waffle with extra crunchy peanut butter.
And on non work days? There’s still a routine. I call it The Great Puppy Hair Round Up. Usually on Saturday mornings, Jon, if he isn’t at work, is up long before me and is doing some sort of work in the yard. After I’m caffeinated and caught up on my blog reading, I sweep and start loads of laundry and round up the clutter all over our house. Usually at some point we either make breakfast burritos, go out to brunch, or, in the summer, head to the farmers’ market for the best crepes in the world.
It’s Friday night, and, though I have no real plans (working on it, though), I’m more excited about my Saturday morning. I’m thinking French toast, maybe 2 cups of coffee, a little reading and then a thorough housecleaning. Maybe at some point I’ll even make cookies. Sometimes I even look at mySELF and think, how did you turn into an old fogey at age 24.5? Even more importantly, how did you turn into your MOM? What’s that quote, by Oscar Wilde or someone? About how all women become their mothers and that is their curse, but no man ever does, and that’s his? I must say, I don’t feel cursed at all. I never knew I could be so happy turning into a hermit (and my mother).
Edit: Now that I think about it, there are a lot of ways I’ve turned into my mom. I stock my fridge with home made sweet tea instead of soda. I have an herb garden. I compost. I’m big on my reusable lunch bag– despite the fact that I found them humiliating when I was in high school and forced to reuse the same brown bag (all the cool kids carried brown bags instead of reusable bags) every day for a week for both thrifty and environmental reasons. I listen to NPR, despite having hated being forced to listen to “A Prarie Home Companion” on car trips. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg….