Switching Things Up

I am a creature of habit and routine, and most of time that works just fine for me. I could easily eat the same foods every week, wear the same seven tee shirts in rotation, go to work, work out and play poker, write a little, walk up to the McDonald's for a hot fudge sundae, and never think twice about doing anything different, meeting anyone new, or going anyplace else. Men as a species are often this way. Oh, there are the adventuresome types you meet who are always bragging about the places they've been and the mountains they've scaled, but guys like that have merely made a routine out of novelty and often lack the ability to be content where they are. It makes me nervous just being around them.

Give me someone who is settled and boring, like Doug. I trust him. A man doesn't need impressive friends. He needs reliable and loyal ones. You can sit down with a good man and talk and share a game and a bottle of wine, not see one another due to changing fortunes or the ill winds of circumstance for twenty years, have the opportunity to meet again through God's good graces, and the conversation will flow like you never left one another's side: "How you been, man?" In ten minutes you will both be laughing at your same stupid jokes. That's the beauty of being boring and predictable and wasting hours talking about PAC-10 football. We're guys. It's what we do.

The devotion to routine is comforting and grounding, but we have to be careful. Once in a while it can settle in your stomach like a heavy meal and weigh you down to the point of immobility. Doing the same things and sitting in the same chair and ignoring the larger world around you can become a cocoon, a thick outer layer of insulation that turns you into a grubbing worm, an eating and sleeping organism, a shell of the glorious creation you were meant to be. Occasionally you have to deliberately bust out of the routine, take stock or take flight.

Tonight was a night like that. I deliberately did everything backwards. After work I called Marie as I often do, just to check in and hear how she's doing. Her youngest daughter Austin is home from a trip to Washington D.C. and they were catching up. Austin had a wonderful time and was full of stories. She took a beautiful picture of the Washington Monument at night, had a manicure at their hotel, given to her by a woman who had done Beyonce's nails the week before. Austin is an amazement, bright and independent and wickedly funny She's going places in this world, and it will be interesting to see how far she flies. The sky is not the limit; I'm certain she'll orbit the earth one day if she wants to.

We had a nice talk and it was a perfect summer evening in Portland, pleasant and sunny and mild after three days of cloudiness and gloom, and I had the sense of the whole evening in front of me and no desire to go to the gym. Maybe I was giving in to laziness, but as I left the parking lot and reached Cornfoot Road I turned left instead of right. Thursday morning the bank finally got their foot off my neck and returned my money, and now I could buy something again. I decided to celebrate by going to the grocery store. I took the back way home and stopped at Albertson's at Prescott and Cully Boulevard, bought fruit and roast turkey and albacore tuna, a dark Hershey bar and some swiss cheese and fresh bread. I spent about $47 altogether, delighted to have several bags of groceries and blueberries to eat by the handful. I wanted to ride my bike to work tomorrow so I swung back by the office to put some of the food away their but everything was locked up. I'd never been there after hours; I didn't realize they closed it like that but I guess it makes sense. I hope I didn't trip any secret alarms or hidden cameras--I was just trying to put away my tuna and bananas. No doubt I will get a memo. I am always getting a memo about something. The flood of emails never ends. But I did get a 96 on my CSR II test yesterday. I would have been happy to squeak by with a C.

It was too late to deliver groceries but still only 6:30-7 o'clock. I decided to chip and pitch and putt at Colwood for a while. I holed out two chips, and the last shot I took was a nice 50-yard pitch that arced softly in the air, bounced twice and settled about three feet from the hole. I had one practice ball left a few feet further out but I decided to pick it up. Shooting baskets, practicing golf or clearing up old customer files, always quit on a good one. Leave yourself with a feeling of success. Always. It can be pretty elusive in other areas of life, so exercise your control over these.

I got home around eight, and decided to take a nap. Didn't play a single hand or write a single line, full knowing the nap might turn into extended nights sleep. Woke up at four with a cramp in my leg and staggered to the kitchen for a palmful of mustard. I was back in my routine. It was right where I'd left it, like a good friend.

Now it's about 5:20 am. I could go to the gym for an early morning workout, or I could head back to bed for another nap before work. I'm not an early morning guy. If the alarm doesn't go off call me and wake me up.