I have a confession. I’m a woman who thrives on routine, yet I’m also a woman who, if forced to eat the same breakfast cereal three days in a row, will start to feel her soul calcify. It’s a delicate dance, this tango between the predictable and the peculiar. My morning, for instance, is a …
Every morning, at exactly 7:14 a.m., a fuzzy grey paw taps my left eyelid. Not 7:15, not 7:10. 7:14. My cat, Chairman Meow, is a creature of rigorous, unyielding habit. He runs a tighter ship than a Swiss train conductor. For years, I thought his rigid insistence on the breakfast schedule was the enemy of …
Somewhere between the first sip of coffee and the third, I get this quiet, ridiculous conviction that I’m a genius. Not a loud, braggy genius. A pajama-clad genius who believes she can finally organize the Tupperware drawer and write a thousand words on the existential loneliness of a single sock. The whole thing rests on …
There is a moment, around 5:47 a.m., when the kitchen floor meets my bare left foot and the kettle begins its low, reassuring rumble. The dog—a creature of profound, almost spiritual laziness—does not stir. The cat, on the other hand, glares at me from the top of the bookshelf, silently accusing me of disturbing her …
I have a confession. I own a planner. Actually, I own four planners, because I keep buying ones with softer paper or more pleasing grid patterns, convinced that the right one will finally turn me into a person who wakes at 5:45 a.m., drinks hot water with lemon, and produces a thousand flawless words before …