A Routine Post

Webster's Dictionary defines 'routine' as... shit, you get the picture. I wanted this week to be formulaic, predictable. Maybe it was because I can't remember ever having planned out a full week. Maybe it was because I needed to battle the lethargy brought on by the rising summer heat. Either way, this week I decided to stick to a routine.

I'm certainly a morning person, meaning that I'm more effective and driven before noon. The only problem is I'm also a pretty good night owl, staying up to sunrise several times a week. I decided to compromise and go to bed at by 1AM and wake up by 8AM.

When I have an issue that's just occurred to me, I type it as a question into my Google Chrome search bar, like a 7-year-old asking his or her father for advice. My question was: How do I not be a pussy when it comes to being productive?

After navigating past posts explaining vaginal pimples, inducing labor, and whelping a litter, I found a self-help blog whose basic message was that we don't get what we want because we either haven't thought carefully about what we want, or we haven't fully committed to pursuing that desire. That seemed fairly obvious. That's part of why I wanted a routine. However, another post had a useful tidbit: pick five difficult tasks that you plan to do in one day and start with the most difficult one.

My five tasks were: run, write, work, clean, and flirt. Writing is easily the hardest task, but I found that I couldn't sit down and do that for several hours first thing after waking up without nervous pacing and frustrated energy. Thus, running came first with writing immediately after. Fake writing, or web writing work along with doing my fiction editor duties came in third at a nearby cafe filled with beautiful people and bottomless coffee. Cleaning (dishes and laundry) came in fourth, late afternoon. Flirting mostly took place on OkCupid, since I'm still terrible at in person. That was my life Monday-Friday.

The most exciting part to this arrangement was around 7 in the evening when I realized I'd done it all and just had time to sit and think or not think or think about not thinking or not think about thinking. Somewhere in there I got to pondering this whole routine business. In the past, I'd prided myself on not having a routine, not being predictable, which eventually meant scrambling predictably to get things done at the last moment. With this came the realization that having a routine can be freeing, especially when it comes to thoughtful ways on breaking that routine. So I choose to define a routine as 'expected tasks that leave room for unexpected pleasures.'

This is probably my least exciting post so far. Well, what'd you expect from the title?

Week 7: Hula Hoop

This week, I wanted to learn how to hula hoop for the same reason that you'd want to do cartwheels or yo-yo – just because. So, I bought a hoop and practiced for 5-20 minutes every day yet had little improvement. I tried to find the right songs (this was my favorite) but to no avail. My long-term hope was that this would turn me into a better dancer (a friend also told me that it'd teach me new sex moves). Finally, I realized that I'd purchased a kiddie-sized hula hoop.

A properly-sized hoop is supposed to come to past your belly button if stood on the ground. Mine comes up to my crotch. These kids, a group of boys and girls whose members seem to change daily, play below my balcony after school lets out. I ponder whether to walk down and hand it to one of them but decide that might be creepy (“Here child, this toy barely reaches my crotch. Don't forget to move your hips”). Instead, I wait until a midnight downpour, rush down to lean it against the brick wall of the mail room, and scurry back inside – an anonymous gift because a little mystery costs nothing to give. The hoop was gone the next day.

Hula Hoop Update: I was walking back from the library while reading a book. A car full of college kids sped by, and one of them jolted me from my walking words by screaming "Yo faggggggot!" This angered me and I hoped their car would need to stop at the next light. The light stayed green and they kept speeding along. My anger passed, and I was saddened that someone would scream that at a random stranger, whatever their orientation. I wondered if it was because I'd been reading a book or if it was because I was wearing my grey fedora with a flower stuck in it (many guys seem much less likely than girls to appreciate a fedora. I suspect that this is because they've tried to wear one and failed miserably. I wear mine well and make no apologies. Still, I digress as this post is supposed to focus on a hula hoop). Anyway, I made it home a little more depressed than when I set out and stumbled across that kiddie-sized hula hoop from last week. It was accompanied by four small children who were playing on my stairs. 

"Wow, do you guys know how to hula hoop?" I asked.

Yes, yes they did, and I didn't have to pretend to smile or be impressed.