I find that my life (but presumably not just mine) is dictated by routine.
I’m not sure how I feel about these routines. In term time, the ‘routine’ was always such a mixture of lectures, seminars, rehearsals and socialising that I never minded. If anything, routine can be comfort. I don’t think I could sleep if I neglected to brush my teeth before I got into bed, and that’s not simply out of compulsive dental hygiene.
However, the last few weeks have bred a kind of inside routine. I wake up (inside) and find I have no justifiable reason to go out. Milk is infinite, books are never-ending and the computer offers endless half-hearted entertainment.
I hate this.
Despite having my only exam this Friday, last night I went out with some friends and had a meal, then did the classic combination of conversing and dancing. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t (very) tired, I wasn’t worried. At the end of the night, stood in the street waiting for a taxi to pick us up and take us home, I truly felt alive.
I don’t think it was simply the pleasure of a routine broken. The fact that upon waking I began my morning routine without hesitation suggests I really am a creature of habit. Just one who occasionally needs to be out in that wild, wild outside.
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