Not on my watch

Today I woke up and forgot that I was not on holiday yet. Then I panicked and made ready. But I got lost and arrived as half a worker at the computer. I tried to organise. My stomach was queasy. I lay down. I stared at the pc. I sent a few emails. I lay down. I brushed my teeth. I realised it had been months and I hadn't picked up my cheque book. I walked to the mall. I waited for a long time in a line, sweating while I drowned out other people with my iPod. I got angry at the bank teller. I felt bad. I had an illicit felafel. I felt ill. I walked home. I wanted to vomit. I lay down and passed out. Later I woke up and took painkillers. I called a friend and apologised as I would not be able to go to his housewarming. I was nauseous, my body was queasy and there was blood coming out my bum. Now I am back at the pc and have nothing to say.

Anti-anti-routine blues

We are all held by delicate threads that call themselves routine but are in fact the reason we are able to climb into our beds at night without anarchy destroying the fabric of our lives. This may all sound a little bit like hypochondria for the existentialist but, after living for some years on this planet, I know this to be true.

I often think about routine. And the conclusions I reach reflect my age. My resistance to routine used to be the badge of youth. I would stand up against the need to fulfill the basic step step of life because it meant buying into mediocrity. If I followed routine I would become the epitome of suburbia. I would have bought into the life that I actively disagreed with. Why would I want to be a replica of a million other subjugated women? Rebellion against routine was part of my cry for an individual voice.

But I did not know the truth. Human beings follow the basics of scientific law. Without a bit of moulding, a squidgeon of direction, we move towards lethargy. We could probably sit all day on our well-rounded little bottoms if sustenance was all sorted. To be fair, we would probably need some entertainment. A thousand books and a world of escapist visuals leave us occupied for hours... for a lifetime. But then the internal cuckoo clock juts out his head. (Maybe her head?) And we look at all we have not achieved and we sigh.

While there is drama in using the plural, I should stand up for what I am. I can waste away hours and days in a world without routine. When I am faced with no structure, I drift. If I'm lucky I am thrown into interesting situations but that means leaving it up to chance. And chance isnt always kind. Routine brings a form of much-needed structure into my life. However I only learnt this in my late thirties.

Youth was about carrying the beacon for anti-establishment. It was a small light but it belonged to me. That I could decide what time I brushed my teeth felt like a victory. While heroes were destroying injustices I was fighting my own battles in suburbia. They felt as big.

There is a cliché: sometimes you need to lose the battle to win the war. I think maybe this is a bit like that. I fought desperately against routine and truly believed I was part of the last outpost. But routine is part of commitment. Commitment is part of defining a life that transcends description. So once my pithy little brain had got round that concept I am now in the process of trying to create a routine that is part of my individuality and that allows me to move onto larger feats.

it isn't easy.

I have to retrain myself and my need to rebel. But I have learnt that without routine it is not that easy to achieve my goals, to balance my life, to steady my unquiet mind. Routine is in its own way a western meditation device.

I want to be more than I am.

smoke-free zone

When I went hospital, I gave up smoking. Just like that. It wasn't so bad when I was in a different environment but once I got home and back to my routineless routines, it was bizarrely difficult. I feel like I am crack addict. The idea of smoking fills my brain most of the day and it is already 3 weeks.

The physical cravings went After 2 weeks but the psychological craving doesn't seem to want to let up. Smoking filled a space in my life that I wasn't ready to give up. It marked the time in my days. It allowed me to stop thinking. It put my life on hold. Before I did anything, I smoked. When I need a break, I smoked. Now I have my life ahead of me and I am not sure that I like what I am seeing. Before, I could have clouded the realisation with a smoke. Now there is just endless time ahead of me. Endless potential to be filled.

I have to face my faults head on now. There is no pause button and my brain is having problems dealing with this. Smoking was a pause from life, in every way. It brings you closer to death. You ride the edge but do it in a 'safe' way.

Now that I am an almost non-smoker, I am propelled forward by Oprah moments. I must live my best life. I must fulfil my potential. I must create change. I should make a difference. There is no pause.

Old year, new year

The new year is so close, I can smell it. While logic dictates that demarcating time is an arbitrary exercise, and that it is no more the new year in 6 days than it is in 4 days, the idea still panics me. I look around at my life and the incomplete projects, and there is this pressure to create a clean slate for the new year. If I don't, perhaps it will taint the new year with any negatives of the old year.

Yes, amongst war, famine, crime and poverty, I choose to focus (and become anxious) about time. Time is an old foe. Whether its evidence confronts me in the bathroom mirror every morning (hysteria is not a great way to begin the day) or the sweat of a looming deadline makes the clock hands go into overdrive, time likes to bitchslap me constantly.

It could all be sorted if I was able to create a routine. I have listened to other people, eavesdropping on discussions of their day. People know when they are waking up. They have a set time to eat breakfast, to work, to sleep... whereas each day is a surprise to me. There are no mealtime plans, toothbrushing times and work schedules. It is me and my computer. Oh and the clock, reminding me that time is passing.

Perhaps 2007 will be the year to set routine. Or I could just go back to bed now and forget I had this specific impulse. I just yawned, so it looks like number two is winning at this moment.