and upward.

It's morning. The cats, starting with the smallest one woke me up at 5 a.m. The door to our bedroom was shut, and she was locked out. From what I could gather by her tiny, desperate mews was she missed and wanted to snuggle with our next oldest cat, the black one. When he heard her, he knew his go-to guy, the one willing to get out of bed and let him out to see her, which was not me. That was that. I was awake (again) at 5 a.m. Once the black one was out of the room, and his liberator and I had snuggled back down into the covers, the white one jumped up and onto the bed, walked over both of our still sleepy bodies--this usually includes at least half of his startling body weight stepping on my full bladder--then curled up along side me, effectively sealing me into the already heavy covers. I went back to sleep.

Could this routine be the source of the feeling of heaviness I feel at two in the afternoon to take an hour-long nap on the couch? Maybe. This has, in fact, occurred every morning for at least a month. We all have our routines. Some parts of them are good, some are annoying, or at very least boring, and some are a detriment to progress.

At 6:30 a.m., a new routine begins. I don't get up until 7, after I slip my sweatshirt over my head, put my socks and slippers on, and step out of the bedroom. My coffee's waiting, and we head out onto the porch to start the day. The cold air feels good, because once the cat's got you sealed into the bed, it gets pretty hot under the covers. Occasionally he's close enough to my head to allow me a leg out.  I sleep better those mornings. Anyway.

Flash forward to 7:30 a.m. I'm alone in the house again. I check my bank account online. I look for a job. Or I look at jobs. I'm qualified for very few, or often, none. Hmph.

And now this. I'm making every effort to add this to the routine. I'll also make more effort to make it sound less routine. Blogging. It's not really writing, but it's not not writing. For me, it's like a diary. For others, it's like a game show. Sometimes it's just a bunch of ads and a picture of somebody's feet in the sand. But there's no wrong way to do it. I like it, and I don't. It's undisciplined and I don't have a copy editor. Yet I don't need either. Not for this.

I write about what I know. Or at least how I perceive what I know. My imagination, either fortunately or unfortunately, doesn't work any other way.  I do sometimes wish it did, if escaping into some fantasy world might help me with some of the real life things I face every day. Perhaps I prefer the routine, and most of all the disturbing little breaks in it that give me things to write about. To think about.

8:28 a.m. 

It's time to eat some toast. Whole grain.