Don't waste your time on me, you're already a voice inside my head

by anna at 07:00 PM on June 22, 2004

At my age it's all about rhythms and routines. Every day I awaken to the same line in the same song. I make coffee and toddle down the driveway to retrieve the newspaper in my ratty bathrobe. And so it goes. I might as well be Bill Murray sleepwalking through Groundhog Day.

After I go through my precisely timed AM routine it's off to the office. Since I've lost my card-key I'm at the mercy of this odd receptionist. She has a son fighting in Afghanistan. Though I don't so much as know her name, she recites an update on his ordeal and that of his unit. And while I brush past her with nary a word of acknowledgement, she doesn't seem to mind. (Her tendency to do this with anyone who'll listen and some who won't is a favorite topic of office conversation.)

Then I take a luxurious shit on company time. Someone invariably walks in and comments on how awful it smells. I wonder if they can tell who I am from my distinctive two-tone wear with any outfit loafers.

With those shoes I wear the same clothes on the same days of the week. It upsets me greatly if Tuesday's shirt isn't washed on Monday night. I am Rain Man.

Five times a day I stand alone in the same spot, smoking. Mental patients shuffle by with their grim-looking orderlies in tow. Sometimes I see them being wrestled into cars and whisked away. I muse about how this might have wound up on the curb.

I cringe when mental patients bum a smoke from me. I know this will throw off my daily routine. I might have to scurry out late at night for cigarettes. Same goes for people who pop by and help themselves to my wine. The two glasses they sip chatting with my wife are the same two I planned to enjoy later on in front of the TV.

The timing of my car cleaning is tied to a coworker's car maintenance schedule. She's one of those worrisome sorts who adhere to the schedule lest the warranty get voided. Every 3,000 miles she approaches me about giving her a ride to work. That is my cue to gather up the miasma of debris that fills my car. I have to throw away all the half-done crosswords thaqt occupy my mind when stuck in traffic for days on end.

Anniversaries are equally spontaneous. Every July I go on the web to determine what the traditional gift is. On our 15th it was fine crystal. I dutifully bought two Waterford goblets that come in a velvet-lined teek box. I figured we'd break them out on special occasions but my wife had other ideas. She uses hers for---gasp!!---everyday drinking. And now that mine is broken, it's a moot point. You can't toast with one glass.

Besides an understanding of what "easy listening" means, there are a few sign that you've passed from the life on the fly of youth into the drudgery of middle age. Consider the eating of cold pizza for breakfast. Everyone did it in college without a second thought. But I'd never consider wolfing down a slice with my papaya-mango juice-Red Bull cocktail. I'd sooner wear a hat at some jaunty angle. Or how 'bout drinking in the morning? Not that drunkard deal like my ex brother in law, who used to down shots of vodka and beers as his kids ate their cereal. No, I mean those all-day parties where you're drunk by noon and in bed with a splitting headache by 3 PM. Not to worry, you'd just sleep it off. And then get up the next morning and do it again. Never realizing that those carefree days are numbered. Never realizing that you'll wind up watching mental patients be carted off while you smoke and wonder about nasty HIV-encrusted condoms underfoot.