I spun my daily routine in front of the mirror. It looked pretty full. I liked the way it gathered, and skirted around anything important. Smiling and prancing, I gave the mirror a courtesy curtsy. Then I noticed them: the holes in my routine.
My routine has holes! I covered myself quickly, and slid back to the dressing room. Thank God I didn't go out in my routine! I wanted to look like princess Cinderella, not chamber maid Cinderella.
Ok, so maybe I've stretched the fabric of this metaphor a little far. The holes aren't really holes but lack of holes. The Cinderella thing? That's all real baby. See, my routine doesn't allow for Rob time. It allows for Rob work time, and Rob write time, and Rob sleep time, and a little Rob clean time, but no Rob at the ball "ahhhhh…." time. I need Rob "ahhhh. " I still haven't figured out how to get it, but I know what I'm doing now doesn't work.
It requires I haw, and then hem my routine. As we grow, we outgrow our routine. When I first separated from MyUnwife, my routine was a burlap sack. One side work, the other side sleep. It wasn't pretty, but it kept me from hanging out in all the wrong places and displaying all the wrong parts. It was a routine of function.
As time passed I needed to retool the routine. Overlap a few pleats for different writing, Sew some button holes for communicating with friends, and even embellish with some floral fluff to show personality. Now my routine is a little ragged. It needs more work.
Recently I adjusted my Friday night writing. I used to write by the theater fountain courtyard, but now I've sewn up a table at the bookstore down the mall. I keep court in the pseudo coffee shop corner; it's so cliché faux-writer I could puke. All coffee houses house house musicians, and house writers who sulk in the corner critiquing the patron proles like apathetic shepherds to the masses. Surly coffee swirlers, bitter to the world that's blind to their artistic arc light. I am now that token coffee house writer. We're still looking for my musician counterpart, so if you're a crimson goth emo whiner or blue denim granola muncher come on by. I promise, your talents won't be missed elsewhere.
As much as I resent the cliché, it works. I guess that's why it's a cliché. I sulk in the corner making fun of the costumed Anime kids living out their Japanese cartoon fantasies. It's good to know I'm not the only one who needs a life. Still, in the coffee shop I write longer, and leave more satisfied. I don't know if it's the caffeine, or the New York diner mentality: "I'm eating alone with all these other people who are alone, and that brings us together." I think the lack of 4 year old fountain waders may be a big check in the plus column. The only waders in the coffee shop is the pair of boots I wear to match my routine. Nothing say's "Hey I'm cool" like a pair of waders.
It's part of my adapting routine. I'm coming out of a matched Raggedy Ann and Andy scene. Every step timed out to utilize our efficiency, complete with the bow and curtsy goodnight. Now I'm a one man impromptu act. That's the thing about routines, you have to keep them flexible. A solo routine is different than an ensemble. It tweaks and tunes differently. I figure with my luck, by the time I master the one man show, I'll meet somebody who wants to turn it to a duo scene. Yeah, I know. Woe is me! We should all be so burdened. I'm just practicing my bitter froth for tonight's espresso revue.
I've also reviewed my workout. It's part of my routine too. Since my treadmill broke last November, I haven't run. Last week, I splurged and bought a toy to help. I picked up the little Nike bur that fits in my shoe and talks dirty to my ipod. It's a pedometer/workout playlist organizer/golden cow lollipop from the corporate gods. For me it's just something else to sew into the mix. Something new, a boy scout badge for my Miss America sash.
That's my routine. Helping others while parading in my swimsuit and tiara. It may not fit perfectly, but I'm stitching it together as I go. It's wearable, it's Rob, and that's what matters most.
Run Fat Rob Run!
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