June first. A new month. For me it’s just another day. I wake up, see my cat snuggled up besides my legs. How he’s managed to keep his spot throughout my tossing and turning just beats me. I stroke and coddle him — this is the time he allots for us to be affectionate together. As soon as I whisper “let’s get up” he leaps off the bed, waits beside the door until I open it, alley cat impatient to rejoin his alleyway. I make a tall glass of fresh squeezed pink grapefruit juice, pressing all the fruit by hand. The juice tastes that much sweeter for it. I’ve made my bed by then and for a few moments I savour the fact that I’ve got some sort of little routine going. I know I could improve on it if I tacked on more things like yoga and getting outside more and housework and doing administrative things and art project and cooking; things to extend the routine into a bigger part of the day. But first, before beating myself over the head for things I’m not doing, I have to appreciate whatever progress I have made. I’m pretty sure that’s how it works. Routine. Scary word.
June first, feels like resolution time. Must be because there’s a birthday coming round the bend. My resolution: this month, do more yoga, lose 20 lbs (just kidding), get outside a few times a week and figure out how to make the concept of “routine” seem less like a punishment and more like fun. Better yet, I should just find my own word for it. Suggestions are welcome.