that little voice

We are such creatures of habit and heaven forbid if one has to alter a well-established routine. This pandemic is adding to our dependency on doing the same things at the same times each day. We are in for a massive amount of frustration when we can boldly walk out of the house without a mask at any time of the day and stroll down the aisle of the grocery store without using the cart as a shield from someone likely to breath on you. This is going to require another level of adjustment.

It’s the mundane tasks that are entrenched in our psyche: when and how we brush our teeth, get to work, what direction the toilet paper rolls, when we feed the pets, and, oh yes, where we once sat in church. I grew up knowing people chose certain places to sit every Sunday, and if someone new mistakenly sat is a ‘reserved’ spot, they were eyeballed and grumbled at, as the pastor preached about patience and forgiveness.

After a year-plus of studying the faces of other church goers via Zoom it is going to be near impossible to put on a pair of slacks rather than your pajama bottoms in order to watch and hear the message of goodness delivered with everyone sitting in the same room.

There are some good things about repetitive actions. I like not having to think about where the refrigerator is in the house. What if it were moved every two days? I’d be stumbling around the house trying to figure out if I had put it in the laundry room, or the second bedroom, or outside! That would be frustrating. A few years ago, I decided to see if I could change on which wrist I wore my watch. Took me a while to make the transition, and I got so I could wear it on either wrist. But, I became somewhat confused as to which one I had it on, I kept looking at both. Now I don’t wear one at all.

My doglets are pictures of routine. I tell what time it is by their various insistences. Let them out at 6:30 am., feed them at 6:42 am and at 3:15 p.m. they are waiting at the door to go for a walk. If I don’t get the message, one sits and stares pitifully at my immobile body, and the other whines. If no movement is discerned on my part the smaller one pants loud enough to alert the neighbors, and the larger one insists on getting in my lap with his face in mine wanting to French kiss me. They do know about habits and routines.

I can laugh at my dogs’ habits and my friends’ insistence about not changing, but I think nothing of my doggedness in parting my hair on the same side as I did in the 3rd grade, obsessively searching to find the identical lipstick color I wore as a senior in high school, and listening to that rock ‘n roll music I bopped to in 1959.

After isolation is over I think I’ll continue with Zoom on Sundays. I prefer church services lounging on my sofa, a cup of hot tea in my hand, and singing hymns in my nightgown.

Aren’t habits nice?