If you read Monday’s post, you will realise that Simon and I religiously take it in turns to get up early and do the animal chores. It wasn’t really a system we planned – it just turned out that way. Like he always makes the dinner, and I always do the washing up. And he makes the afternoon coffee, and I make the mid-evening tea. It’s funny how routines seem to grow out of nothing and circumscribe your life with sameness before you even notice it happening.
I have an ambivalent relationship with routine. I crave novelty, but solicit economy of action. Wherever there is a series of things to be done, I always strive to find the most efficient way of doing it, so I don’t waste time or energy by retracing my steps, or taking my boots off and on, and such like. And of course we mustn’t forget the myriad compulsive obsessions to which I pay homage throughout the course of every day (which mostly stem out of the irrational fear that germs will migrate from animal paraphernalia to kitchen work surfaces and I WILL DIE!). Which means there comes a point after not many days of doing things where I find the ‘best’ way of going about the process, and any deviation from this way, whilst it might bring the relief of change, comes at the cost of diminished efficiency. Sometimes I hate being me.
The upshot of this ridiculous combination of conflicting desires is a perpetual state of semi-discontent. The prospect of doing the same things in the same way, day after day, fills me with despondency – even when those things are things that I love to do. But if those things are not done ‘just so’ (ie: if Simon does them, or I don’t do them ‘properly’) I am left with a dissatisfying sense of unease. So, there you have it. Despond or Unease? Unease or Despond? Which will I choose today? Throw in my dislike of making decisions and Procrastination skips in to join the fun.
Ho hum. Such is Life. There is clearly only one thing standing between me and Perfect Happiness.
Myself.
