Routine is comforting. We get up at the same time because our internal clock goes off; shop at the same grocery store because we know what's on the shelf in every aisle; see the same people in our neighborhoods watering their lawn at the same time everyday, or think something must be wrong; eat the same breakfast because it's just easy; watch the same shows on television because those characters belong in our living rooms like house-guests who ring the doorbell at the same time every night; dine at the same restaurants because we like the servers and not necessarily the food; wear the same style clothing year after year because it's comfortable, albeit out of style, and don't realize we haven't "colored outside the lines" in what seems like forever. We're bored and we don't even know it, and we're probably boring because of it. But, there is comfort in the same-old, same-old, until it changes.
Recently, we went on a road-trip to Michigan. Twenty-four hours up (not including the 8 hour hotel break), nineteen hours back (no hotel break). On the way, we saw goats grazing, donkeys dining, lightning bugs flickering about the forests, corn fields aiming high, farms shaven and shorn, and a sunset in Georgia reflective of the peaches they grow. While rounding a bend, the setting crimson sun rose between two purple mountain peaks and was our beacon for miles until it nestled into the horizon. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.
We stopped and bought Vidalia onions in Georgia, and in Tennessee we passed an old truck with wooden rails bursting at the sides with ripe green orbs of watermelon just waiting for a Sunday picnic. As we traveled north, the humidity dropped with the temperature and the winds picked up in Ohio, so much so, an American flag blew straight as a starched sheet; not a wrinkled stripe or star. At a gas station in Ohio, I challenged the wind to blow me over by putting my back against the prickling rain and defiantly leaning in to her blows. With arms outstretched as if I were making butterflies in the snow, I noticed a man at another pump doing the same thing, and we both laughed like children. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.
Michigan was rolling and green, unlike Florida's parched flat lands. Family members welcomed us with a Thanksgiving feast, and before we retired in unfamiliar beds and were lulled to sleep by the sounds of unfamiliar birds and unfamiliar trains, we watched moon flowers unfold their buttercup yellow petals. At dusk, deer graze and the sun leaves the sky alight until ten at night and retires only until five or so in the morning, which gives new meaning to day-break. Dawn brings temperatures in the fifties, sun on a glass lake and birds' beaks peaking out of their wood houses. Granny and I walked the lake in mornings to the tune of nature and stories of her ninety years. Turtles, rabbits, annoying flies, and a stray dog joined our journey which I looked forward to every morning. Birdhouses, the white Victorian five-story variety, and paint-worn wood boxes anchor every property. Neighbors and strangers alike waved hello. That was not part of my routine and the change was comforting.
The longer days, cooler nights, brighter mornings, friendlier folk became part of my routine. I found my way around Michigan grocery stores and knew every aisle; woke up earlier looking forward to walking Elk Lake, and went to bed earlier to the trains' roar, now familiar. I checked the moon flowers when they opened at night and closed in the morning. I now waved to the neighbors, no longer strangers and even know the stray dog's name, Rough. Leaving this place was not part of my routine and was not comforting.
The drive home started in the early evening and went through the dark mountains of Kentucky overnight. There were deer sightings, lightning bugs and the corn was a little higher. The old watermelon truck was replaced by a cantaloupe toting Toyota. Soon, the hills came to a rolling stop outside of Gainesville, but the goats reappeared. The smell of humidity brought sweat to my forehead and a sign for Publix reminded me of my routine. I went right for the roses once we got home, pruning their dried blooms and watering their thirsty thorny stems. Ironically, the rhubarb shriveled like the Wicked Witch of the West for lack of water. I shopped at my familiar neighborhood store and the same butcher sold me the same cut of meat I always get. I took Bebe on our same walk and we visited the same couple who always give her a treat. They had missed us and looked for us the same time every night. I retired at the same time I did in Michigan, only it was darker. In the morning, I looked out my bedroom window at the same time I usually do, to see the same aging Asian man shuffling in his pajamas up the street, cane in hand, hat cocked slightly to the side. It started to rain and I was worried about him. When I looked out the window for him again, this time I saw he was walking with his wife, who was worried about him too, and had brought him an umbrella which they shared on the walk back. That was not part of his routine, but the change was comforting, to both of us.
Losing weight is an expensive venture. One reason, is you find yourself spending more money on better nutrition; fresh veggies and fruit, leaner cuts of meat, whole grain breads and cereals. Do you remember the last time you saw a coupon for .50 cents off a head of broccoli, or a whole melon or a bag of apples? Have you seen any coupons lately for fresh salmon or tilapia? If you look at the weekly coupons in the Sunday paper, you'll notice they're mostly for food like .75 cents off a 5 pound bag of sugar, and that you won't find on the shopping list of someone who has committed to a lifestyle of healthier eating.
If that were a 50 lb sack of Hawaiian coffee, at $30 a pound, I've lost $1500 in coffee beans!
