I have a confession. I am a creature of habit so deeply entrenched in my own little rituals that if you were to map my morning, it would look like the schematic for a very boring, very predictable Rube Goldberg machine. The alarm clock triggers the cat, the cat triggers the kettle, the kettle triggers …
I have a confession. Every morning, I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes. Not because I’m a dental hygiene zealot, but because my electric toothbrush has a built-in timer that buzzes every thirty seconds to tell me to switch quadrants. I stand there, foaming at the mouth like a rabid spaniel, waiting for the …
I have a confession. I am a creature of habit, a slave to the clock, a woman who has, on more than one occasion, wept genuine tears over a misplaced day planner. My friends call me predictable. My therapist calls it “adaptive structuring.” I call it the only thing standing between me and a life …
I used to believe creativity was a wild animal. A magnificent, unpredictable beast that would only grace me with its presence if I sat very still in a darkened room, burning expensive sage and waiting for the muse to strike me like a bolt of divine lightning. I thought routine was the enemy—a cage for …
I have a confession. Every morning, I brush my teeth for exactly two minutes. Not because I’m a dental hygiene fanatic, but because my electric toothbrush has a built-in timer that buzzes every thirty seconds to tell me to move to a different quadrant of my mouth. I stand there, foaming at the lips like …