That Little Voice

That Little Voice

My life is full of patterns not normally registering on my radar.

What time I eat breakfast, how I brush my teeth, where I leave my shoes, how I hang my shirts up, are all habits I have adopted due to convenience or laziness. For instance, when I return home I take my shoes off in the living room, leaving them next to the chair where I spend my sitting time. My house slippers also reside in this improvised ‘shoe closet’ beside said chair.

I come in, sit down, take my walking shoes off, replacing them with my house shoes. When I get ready to leave I reverse the procedure. This ritual saves me from having to walk to my closet to put away or retrieve my shoes, making the process simple and efficient.

My shoe example merely shows you either my resourcefulness or my slothfulness, depending on who is taking notice. Since my Mother is no longer around to voice her displeasure at my lack of tidiness, I am not filled with guilt when a visitor stops by and gazes on my less than clean sneakers haphazardly tossed in plain sight.

At 80, who am I attempting to please? Everyone I hang out with is about my age and have given up the need to take extra steps just to fool people into thinking they are immaculate house keepers.

Besides, they often don’t remember why they dropped by, so they probably won’t recall my cluttered living room.

Back to what I started out to write about: patterns. I find I become terribly confused if someone or something causes me to change my routine. If my purse isn’t where I always put it when I come home because I set it on the kitchen cabinet as I hurried to get a piece of chocolate as a ‘quicker picker upper’ after walking my dogs, then I may spend vital minutes, or possibly hours, retracing my steps.

Of course, retracing steps may not work so well, since I have dismissed from memory my dash to the decadent candy jar. I check the bathroom counter, the closet shelves, the bed, the dining table, the patio chairs, the dogs’ bowls, the office closet, the living room sofa, where I sit to catch my breath, and then, once more, make a circle around the house hoping something will spark a memory.

It’s only when I head back to the kitchen for a fifth or sixth piece of candy do I notice my bag discreetly gracing the space between the toaster and the sink.

All this is to say, patterns are important to my wellbeing.They save me steps, time, and stress. But when I do break a pattern, with all its trauma, I am provided fodder for my next column.