Routine Procedures

The other morning, a few minutes after the first cardinal had found its voice, I was dialing (yes, I still dial, even though I'm pushing buttons) the Journal-Star's circulation desk to ask where our newspaper was.

See, we have the world's greatest paper carrier, which is a thing of beauty for a household that wakes up much too early each day. In fact, as I type this--at 5:20 a.m. on a Saturday--I hear the familiar grumble of our carrier's car ambling slowly down our street. Soon, it will be followed by the lovely "thunk" of another novella delivered tidily to my front door.

After entering my mild complaint with the circulation operator, I decided, at first light, to look again for our paper, which I found this time, tucked into the corner of our front steps, rather than atop the "welcome" mat, where it usually is.

Is it possible that everyone is a bit obsessive compulsive, hungry for the routines that we've established for ourselves?

At least to some degree, the benefit of our routines depends upon how we take apart that word "routine." For some, it comes from the word "route," indicating the road map we use to move through our days and lives. At other times, though, the word seems more akin to "rut" than "route."

And we've all been stuck there before.

Most days, my routines are like well-worn blankets to me, offering me both comfort and familiarity. Yes, they can get a little threadbare, especially in the middle of a long, gray winter, which is usually when I pull out my proverbial sewing kit and reinforce the edges a bit. But it is worth the extra effort, given what a dependable routine offers me in return.

My propensity towards routine has always made me a little googly-eyed in the presence of a true adventurer. I can get a bit uncomfortable around these people, who seemingly move through the world on the wings of a hang glider or dangling precariously from a nylon cord threaded through a much-too-small carabiner. They make me feel small and boring.

What is it about glitz and glamour and gorgeous sunsets that can pop the air right out of routine's "o" and make the rest of us feel like we're in a rut?

I wonder, though, how I make those people feel. Is it possible that the splashy daredevil secretly hankers for the steadiness of my own life? Is it possible that, mid-air, they're simply looking for the perspective that I've already found on the ground, three thousand feet below them?

I suspect that, like the rest of us, the daredevil utters his or her own confessions and doubts in a hushed, vulnerable tone, behind the comfort of a velvet screen, looking not so much for answers as for a bit of acceptance.