Feeling Groovy

There are those who move through the world as if in a groove, so practiced in their daily routines that they scarcely waste a movement.  My husband is such a person.   Beginning with the first squawk of his alarm clock, he reaches over to silence it by hitting the snooze button.  He has set the alarm to precisely fourteen minutes before he needs to rise, enabling him to experience two full bouts of planned procrastination. 

As he rises from the bed, he unplugs his cell phone from its charger, checking for any calls that may have come during the night.  In reality, there is no ring tone that can wake him from his slumber; the phone stays permanently on its silent setting, waking me with its vibration so that I, in turn, can wake him. 

Our bedroom is positioned conveniently behind the kitchen.  My husband is able to move seamlessly between bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, his activities choreographed to an early morning ballet.  He flips on the shower to heat, then glides to the kitchen to turn on the flame under the teakettle (which has been filled the night before).    Beside it sits his one of his French presses, already loaded with scoops of ground coffee, meticulously roasted and ground in specialized gadgetry.  Back in the bathroom, he makes quick work of the shaving ritual before jumping into the shower.  He has honed his ablutions to fit the duration required for the water to boil, emerging from the steaming shower and grabbing his towel in time to hear the boiling hum rise to a full whistle.  Clad in a warmed towel, he pours the water into the press and positions the top, returning to the bathroom to brush his teeth.  Just as the timer signals the passing of four minutes, he as already positioned his contacts in his eyes.  It is now time to plunge and pour the hot coffee into his special "to-go" cup.

Dressing is accomplished in short order, made easy by the clothes that were laid out the night before.  On many occasions I am required to perform a bit of late night editing, switching out a tie or jacket to save the poor man from ridicule or the fashion police.  There is no possibility of a wardrobe discussion in the early morning hours; there can be no random variables in this man’s morning.

The departure and the route through city streets to downtown are all carefully calculated to achieve the desired outcome:  minimized traffic, access to a favorite parking space, a walk up the staircase to avoid the wait at the elevator.  He arrives at his clinic predictably with just enough time to don his white lab coat and review the morning’s schedule.

My husband applies this same kind of methodical rigor to everything he does.  If I call him in a frantic whim urging that something needs to be done, he says ‘OK,’ yet he simply adds the task to a running list to be handled in its turn.  He is predictable and unflappable to the tenth power.

I am the exact opposite.  I abhor routine, hardly able to perform the same task twice.  Early in my career I learned to excel at project-oriented staff jobs; line management is incompatible with my basic nature.  I cannot be responsible for other employees, punching clocks, and filing routine reports.  I will gladly take on a problem that no one knows how to solve.  I will roll up my sleeves and get my hands dirty, immersing myself day and night in pursuit of a challenge.  But ask me to give the same presentation, complete the same paperwork, or teach the same class more than once and I glaze over.  I seem to be constitutionally unable to stay in a groove.

This has caused a lot of personal angst over the years, as I confronted the necessities of adulthood and motherhood.  Only for the sake of my own children have I been able to conform to any sort of repetitive schedule, starting with middle-of-the-night feedings, continuing to 5am hockey practice, and culminating with a 45-minute drive four nights per week for fencing practice.   I admire women who keep a consistent home, performing domestic tasks on a strict schedule that distributes dusting, laundry, shopping and vacuuming across the days of the week.  I just cannot do it.

They say opposites attract.  I suppose it is no accident that I have tied myself to a creature of habit.  Perhaps my husband’s intractable routine grounds me, supplying a foundation that I sorely need.  Maybe I should be more tolerant when he answers the phone with his familiar “How are you?” refrain—treating me no different than any stranger.   It is just possible that his predictable aphorisms—uttered on cue in so many situations—are meant to comfort rather than annoy.  And as he works his way home every evening, taking each calculated back road turn just as he did the night before, I should be grateful when he arrives home at the predictable time, offering his signature bear hug just before he unknots his tie.

Now that’s groovy.

Tomorrow's blog:  Buzz and Ruby's Nest