There is a part of me that thinks I am sufficiently complex to not need something so mundane as a routine. And there’s a larger, more real part of me that happily kowtows to its tyranny. Take this morning. Like every weekday, I got up at 7.15am, rubbed my face with coconut oil, washed it off, went downstairs, slipped on the penultimate step, steadied myself, went into the kitchen to make various hot drinks, flicked through Instagram, checked my emails, saw there was no bread, panicked, checked my emails again and put three eggs on to boil. Then I went to work, where throughout the day there were further pauses and snacks. Later, I will go home for my third and perhaps greatest act, in which every night without fail I go to bed with earplugs, an eye mask, and – the denouement – an industrial fan to block out “noise”. Truly, with this kind of flexibility, it’s a miracle I was ever single.
On reflection, my whole day is a routine. I pretend it’s not because I am not unhappy with it, but it’s certainly a tyranny I hadn’t really thought about until I came across the morning routine of Princess Margaret, which was doing the rounds on Twitter this week. It included the following: “breakfast in bed”, “two hours in bed listening to the radio”, and “a vodka pick-me-up” at 12.30pm, which carried HRH giddily into the afternoon. Imagine, I thought, doing the same thing over and over because you lacked the imagination to do anything else!
And yet. While the kettle boils, I place some ice cubes in a sink of water and stick my head in. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel more alive, so I keep doing it. While the coffee brews, I moisturise. I get dressed in six minutes and salute the patriarchy by taking my boyfriend coffee in bed. I leave the house at 8.17am and, during my 10-minute walk to the bus stop, call my mum. When the signal goes faint (about 8.42am), I put the phone down and read. I do my eyeliner at work in the loo. To save time, I have a bath at night and bring my breakfast to work. When there’s a guest, I politely ask them to stay in their room until I’ve left.
But it goes without saying that I associate a lack of routine with privilege, or rather freedom; the bohemian ideal, that we should only work when we are inspired to do so, eludes me. I sound bitter! Maybe I am. After all, 10 years ago, I didn’t have a routine. This was a golden, worry-free period when I had no responsibility, no money and everything was fine. What changed? The wheel spun completely the other way, and now morning routines are a way of coping with modern life, but wouldn’t it be nice if life wasn’t simply for coping?
Routines are, of course, natural and normal, soundtracked by the circadian tapping of the spoon on every mug of tea during every single break. We like control. It guards us against moments when there is none. Morning routines of successful people are also fascinating. Whether it’s to self-flagellate for getting up an hour after AC Grayling, or congratulate yourself for drinking less than Kurt Vonnegut, who numbed his twanging intellect with “several belts of Scotch”, the lives of others are middle-brow crack.
We follow routines with the intention of making our lives easier, or better, but rarely consider how limiting they might actually be. Capitalism paints routines as highly prized beasts and completely necessary, rather than a choice. The idea of a Keynesian model in which the economy actually works for us, and gives us more time feels completely abstract. Until then, time is only precious because it is so rare.
It’s not all bad – there is definite method in having a routine. The psychology of starting the day productively makes sense even without science. Get big stuff out of the way first thing and your mind is clearer, or as Mark Twain suggests: “Eat a live frog first thing in the morning, and nothing worse will happen to you the rest of the day.” And a routine can be helpful, even essential, following the seismic impact of, say, a job loss, or even a death in the family, where your routine is changed without warning and quite by default. I remember my mother racing home from the hospital after such a death, simply to finish the chore she had started that morning – an urgent need for some sweet familiarity when her world was suddenly unrecognisable.
I should also add that I have a relatively routine-free weekend, helped by the twin saboteurs of sex and sleep, although I realise both sound indulgent to anyone with children. A friend who has never had a routine says it allows for “more light and shade within each day”, and an “acceptance that the day could go either way”. The goal then, perhaps, is a morning routine that allows for serendipitous events. I can, of course, allow for some variables – sometimes I’ll put a wash on, and today, for example, I quartered and ate a pear. I’m not a complete psychopath.
