My husband called me a creature of habit this morning and I was weirdly offended. I think it made me feel predictable. Sure, I make 7.5 cups of coffee (not eight–never eight) at the same time, seven days per week. But I’m not a creature of habit. Come on, man. GOD. I’m a novelist. A creature of whimsy and creativity.
I know what he means, though. And if we must name the thing, I’d prefer something like “methodical.” Because at least that hints at a potential for madness. Like MAD METHODICAL GENIUS WRITER TYPE WHO REFUSES TO GET MOM HIGHLIGHTS. That’s right. I’m off the color train. Off the deep end, baby.
Listen, I DON’T EVEN WEAR YOGA PANTS TO SCHOOL DROP-OFF ANYMORE. But maybe I will next week because I’m unpredictable. Just whatever, you know? No plans.
Sweatpants, sweatpants, sweatpants, sweatpants, BAM, yoga pants. You won’t even see it coming, and neither will I. Because I’m SO IMPULSIVE.
“Watch out for that one,” they whisper in the drop-off line. “She’s a writer. With bad roots.”
Even so, things need to get done around here. Some of my kids need structure and breakfast and encouraging notes in their lunch boxes and shit.
It’s really not about me loving my role as the family schedule manager. Seriously. I hate it. It’s more about avoiding the energy sap of schedule failures borne of playing it by ear. A single missing homework meltdown has the potential to squelch my writing mojo for days. Don’t you see? It’s really about me. All of it.
Hey, remember how we formed the habit of keeping six identical replacement binkies in various places around the house and car? Was that because we were obsessive structure-loving creatures of habit? No. It was just a stress prevention measure. Just a little anticipatory problem solving, because that’s how MAD CREATIVE METHODICAL GENIUSES DO.
Actual photo of binky that lost its baby. Found it yesterday and got an empathy pang but smoked pot to get rid of it. Just kidding. But if I feel like it, I will.
R.L. SAUNDERS 