There can be a fine line between a routine that drives us forward and brings us purpose and one that bores us in all its monotony after the third month of engaging in physical relations on the same evening of the week after the same mediocre television series in the same position. While it true, we do need moments that are almost sure things to look anticipate, we also need enough flexibility to maximize the potential of each available moment.

Rather than relate all the tediousness of what has become current routine, I’ll just say, I found a rhythm that is working…you know for the moment…or until it ceases to work. Such is everything. Life wouldn’t be what it is if we were denied opportunities to adapt.

When things go well, I am tight lipped, and when things go poorly, I am also tight lipped. Sans the complaining. I’m not sure why I bother. In general, I expect things to go poorly, and when things go well, I am suspicious. I suppose complaining is my way of gloating about knowing things wouldn’t go well to begin with. Nothing like congratulating yourself on being right about shitty things, eh?

Anywho.

I function with a minimal sense of routine. Though there is a dullness in repetition, there is also, knowing there is time set aside for creative interests. I have difficulty setting aside time to do things I enjoy, if there are other tasks or responsibilities that need to be done. My Better Half suffers from the opposite affliction, and I envy him for it.

The trouble with brain numbing, time consuming tasks is your mind has to redirect itself, lest one falls asleep while operating the leaf blower. I’ve been considering the source of laziness and I think it might be closely associated with man landing on the moon in 1969. Leading me to conclude space exploration is pure evil, at least in so far as it relates to my ability to get things done.

Because technology exceeded expectation and imagination, my Better Half is constantly looking for a better way to complete tasks, after all if science can permit man the opportunity to walk on the moon, why can’t it create an easier way to: scrape paint, clean up yard debris, pressure wash the deck, pick up tennis shoes, and for goodness sakes, communicate with extended family?

Because of this scientific hiccup, brains become disdainful of actual application, spend hours laboring in front of computer screens inputing search terms, when the truth is, it is easier and more efficient to physically place your coffee cup in the dishwasher, than find a better way online. Of course the best way to solve this dilemma is to either choose your model of spouse very carefully or continue to live at home with your mother until she kicks the bucket.

The other issue with this space exploration thing, is it’s negative impact upon my patience. If a man can walk on the moon, why do I have to suffer an entire week with a sinus infection. Okay fine so maybe the technology that opened the gate to the great space race was the culmination of decades, hell, cumulatively speaking centuries worth, of applied science, big dreaming and a nominal, or maybe even higher than nominal number of failures. So it probably wasn’t easy, and a lot of people lost sleep, and a lot of wives were probably scared shitless for the husbands (because lets face women have yet to walk on the moon, though if Ralph Kramdem had his way….). If scientist have the resources to expend on something as far-fetched as space travel, the least they can do is expend a tiny amount of energy to ensure that no woman faces another yeast infection, and no man has to endure swollen hemorrhoids.

Some blame the full moon, when others lose track of their sensibilities, but why stop there? We’re always looking for someone else to thrust responsibility upon, might as well blame NASA, as well.

Do you ever get the feeling if you stop complaining there will be nothing left to say? Because, seriously who really gives a crap about the crossword puzzle you finished, the weather, or the city employees you watched dig around in in a six foot tall leaf pile for twenty minutes searching for the water meter? Insert a, “but nobody loves me or visits me,” or a “call back later my shows are on”, and I might as well be eighty years old, with metal pin in my hip and the inability to set the clock on the microwave.

It’s funny how the older we get, the more we equate responsibility with being dull. We seem to harness all this passion and potential, until one day the wizard steps out from behind the curtain and tells us all about 401Ks and termite contracts and all of a sudden we began to suck, finding ourselves dwelling on tedious details. Sure, it’s all in the spirit of improving quality of life, but seriously, do we have to sacrifice all the insanity and impulsiveness that fueled our youthful mishaps. It’s like waking up one morning and finding out that bitch of a tooth-fairy crowned three molars and swiped my spirit of adventure as payment because she she doesn’t have a contract with my insurance company.

I suppose this is the sort of thinking that leads middle aged men to get hair plugs, join a gym, and by a two seat convertible that they can only drive with the top down, because they are too tall to sit in the driver’s seat without rubbing out those radical plugs on the rag top. If Cougartown is an accurate representation of female coping skills, women don’t look any less ridiculous in their quest for eternal youth, dressing like skanks and kidnapping unsuspecting bag boys at the grocery store. If mainstream media is considered an adequate barometer for measuring the public at large, it’s fair to say growing old gracefully is nothing more than myth that belongs on the same shelf with if you touch yourself that way you will go blind and no those pants don’t make you look fat.

Flaws and all, we stumble forward looking for the next best thing, the eternal easter egg that will change our lives forever. Though there are those things, they never seem to work in the manner anticipated. Life is a series of setting goals, and making things happen, not a singular pinnacle that absolves us of the necessity to constantly adapt and evolve. If life were perfect, how would we fill the hours formerly filled with complaints?

I forgot myself, between the pillow fluffing, and the requisite deep sigh that follows turning off the lamp. I paused recalling notion of prayer, then rolled over on my side to count sheep as if nothing had ever happened.

I haven’t prayed of my own volition in a long time. (The Better Half and I take turns giving thanks at meals, but I don’t consider appreciation to food providers to be in the same ball park as say, god please help relieve my gout and watch over my children.”) I observe the niceties and respectfulness of belief one learns to survive in the bible belt to prevent drawing condemnation. It my not sound like it, but I sincerely attempt to be respectful of other’s beliefs. I’ve nothing to gain by destroying another’s faith.

I grew up shadowing my parent’s beliefs. I didn’t think I had a choice. Not in the “If you don’t beg Jesus for forgiveness, I’m gonna get you with a switch..” kind of way, but in the “your only choice is vanilla” kind of way. When I got older, I read more and eventually abandon the flock, and thankfully most of the flock failed to notice.

When I tossed the vestiges of religion, the last item to strike the floor was prayer. I think part of the reason was it was ingrained; not like habitually parking on the same row at the grocery store, but more like taking the pill the same time every day. Eventually it evolved into something cathartic, like writing in a journal. An opportunity to organize your thoughts and empty your head in preparation for a solid night’s sleep, until finally I began unceremoniously turning the light switch and rolling onto my side.

When my father-in-law was in the last throes of lucidity, trying to manage my mother-in-law’s dementia outbursts, I remember him asking us to pray for them. I suspected that his desired outcome from prayer was a very specific one. Something akin to putting spilt milk back in the heifer. I put a lot of thought into the request of an emotionally battered old man, and even based upon my pre-libris beliefs, I had difficulty convincing myself that even if I believed in his god with the same faith as he, I would have difficulty conceiving of a being who would be willing to turn back the hands of time and present my FIL with the pre-demencial woman he loved, who baked him pies, bore him children, and praised his fishing prowess. Even if I prayed to his god on his behalf, and his god accepted the sincerity of an atheist the desired outcome….

My willingness to conform to the prescribed desire to offer prayers on behalf of others who thought they were in need, provided me a vehicle to avoid confrontation. I didn’t have anything to lose because I don’t believe in anything. But, I began wondering if I was violating my own desires to be respectful of others, by the omission of personal truth in submitting to another’s respect for prayer. Was I being disrespectful to the beliefs of friends and family, by offering the comfort of prayer to a god I didn’t believe in?

I always thought the hardest part about not believing would be the persecution. Not from everyone, but some. For each person who is respectful of differences in beliefs, there are those who are not, and face it, the most dogmatic are the ones who receive the most attention. The hardest part is trying to offer comfort to the people in your life who do believe, and expect a very specific flavor of comfort; prayer. I want to offer my support, my “best wishes”, and my desire for I brighter tomorrow, but I can’t always because I don’t believe the world works that way. There are times when there are no answers because life carries on.

I hope they can detect, I want only the best for them, offering respect that will not diminish their beliefs, nor mine.

There’s a stranger in my house. She’s the same height as me, roughly the same hair color, and she seems to have a good report with the Hunter and the Gatherer, but her head seems thick, her responses are delayed, and aromatic smells seem to be of little interest to her. The most peculiar feature is her singular red eye. You don’t notice it at first; probably because of the glasses and squinting in bright sunlight.

She made cinnamon rolls, like mine, she helped sweep the fallen leaves, like I do, and she even ignored the same phone calls that I do. The problem is, she’s foggy headed, makes crude noises when she attempts breathing from her nose, and has this ocd hand washing thing. She’s obviously trying to push though and be a team player when she would clearly be more comfortable on a sofa with a cup of hot tea and a trashy novel.

Instead of giving into her basest desires, she convinced herself she wasn’t sick or rundown, and insisted on going downtown to watch the crew races. Apparently she had been looking forward to it for weeks, sculling shells, synchronized movement, coded blades.

Today, she has done little save unloading the dishwasher, and a couple of loads of laundry. She isn’t a bad guest, but she isn’t much on conversation and she has spent much of the day sleeping. I’m ready for her to move on, she cramping my style, reducing my productivity and she snores. Loud.