As Must Be Done

Before I go to sleep at night, I do things to make sure that I go to sleep at night.

* I take my Advair, I brush my teeth. You cannot brush your teeth first and take the Advair second, or you run the risk of developing thrush-- which is, essentially, Athlete's Tongue.

* I close all the closet doors and shut off the closet lights. My wife and I joke that it's to keep the monsters away but, really, it's to keep the monsters away.

* I turn on the air purifier (dubbed "The Noisemaker") so that its comforting thrum provides the appropriate level of white noise, and so that it can hopefully clear the air of the seventeen thousand tons of pet dander that emanate from our dogs.

* I pick out my clothes for the following day, laying them out on my dresser. Not only do I pick out the clothes for the next day but, on the occasions where I change my trousers, I place my wallet in the back right pocket, my Burt's Bees chapstick in the left front pocket, and I loop my belt all the way through all the loops. This enables me to not wear my brain's battery out from over-exertion first thing in the morning.

* I make the coffee and set the coffee maker to go off at either 6:11am (when I have to be at work at 8:00am) or 5:11am (when I have to be at work at 7:00am).

* I set the breakfast table for Mrs. Apron so that there is a bowl, a glass, a spoon (with her pill resting in it) and a personalized napkin note waiting for her.

There are probably other routines in which I engage every night, but I might not be sufficiently aware of them to elucidate what they are.

If it seems like this is rather an inordinate amount of tasks to complete before resting one's head, think to yourself for a moment about your own pre-dreamie routines. I'll bet you have some. Sure, they might not be as ritualistic or militaristically-defined as mine, or they might even be more so. Come on, give that comment section a little exercise-- I want to hear about your bedtime rituals. Especially if they're likely to turn me on.

Here's the thing about my routines: I love them.

I love my routines.

(Love.)

My routines may just be not that into me, but I am pretty into them. I would cheat on my wife with my routines. I would have sex with my routines. I would make love to my routines, if they wanted me to be gentle-- or I would meth-fuck them if they wanted it all cray-cray like.

I'm accomodating.

My routines bring me immense pleasure, and I would be happy to reciprocate, to let my routines know, in no uncertain terms, how beneficial they are to maintaining my sense of order, to bringing me peaceful nights, to making me feel less anxious and less chaotic. My routines are better than meds, they're better than drugs, they're better than sex (not, though, better than sex with my routines) and they're better than skydiving or being shot out of a cannon or watching Heidi Klum and Megan Fox mayonnaise-wrastle.

I wonder sometimes, how long can I sustain these routines. But, the real question is: how long can my routines sustain me? I'm willing to bet: for a fucking long goddamned time. They've kept me satisfied and satiated this long. I am not hungry for others. I am not wanting. I am not on the prowl for new routines. My eyes may very well wander to other cars or other watches or other pairs of eyeglasses, but may a sweaty albatross pluck out my big browns should they ever start looking for new routines to incorporate into my life.

I love you, Order.

I cherish you, Predictability.

I want to mouth-fuck you, Sameness.

Thank you for being here for me, Routine.

Routine, as you might have guessed, is a derivative of the French word "route." It started popping up in literature somewhere between 1670 and 1680.

A customary or regular course of procedure.

Nice.

Commonplace tasks, chores, or duties as must be done regularly or at specified intervals.

Hot.

Regular, unvarying, habitual, unimaginative or rote procedure.

I'd write more, but I'm getting kind of excited. Besides, it's almost time to set this post to publish at 7:18am.