There's a comfortable continuity to Susan's and my daily routine. Boredom doesn't really figure into it; being able to spend every day together is a blessing I never really expected when I got laid off in 2002 at age 49... But that's a story for another time.
So. The daily routine. We start with the wake up call. I'm normally up well before the sun -- generally somewhere between 3:00 AM and 4:00 AM, but it can be earlier. That means I'm generally our alarm clock. I wander into our bedroom from the office and over the the bathroom at 6:15 AM, where I turn on the bathroom light, then start over toward the bed. Most times from under the covers comes a hand with all digits extended: five more minutes. Early on, that translated by unspoken agreement into three times that amount; we were, after all, both retired now. I go back to the bathroom, get dressed for the day, shut off the light and exit stage left.
Somewhere around 6:30 I return, again to the restroom for light, and then to my side of the bed to turn off the fan we run at night. (More on the fan later.) Sometimes there are further negotiations, and on occasions I restore the fan and light and return to the office for another 15. Urgency is not a factor in our early mornings.
Finally by 6:45 AM, we sit on the side of the bed discussing the weather (temperature, humidity and wind speed from my phone) and Susan's always remarkable collection of dreams. From there we rise and hug, she disappear into the bathroom and I make the bed -- sometimes with our wee doggie Zoe's help, sometimes without. Then it's down the stairs and into the kitchen for the next stage.
First I tear off two sheets of paper towel and fold them into a handkerchief-like affair and stuff it in my pocket*. Next, I reclaim my glasses from their case under the phone. At this point, Kay Lee, our seven-year-old, 120 pound Mastador comes into the room and I scratch her butt and back for whatever time she finds appropriate. This done, she heads back into the living room and I follow.
Here I go to the front door and open it, checking to see how closely the app has called our weather. Then I turn off the porch light and turn on the inside doorway light, grab a clear plastic tub from atop a stand by the door and move that tub to the coffee table. In the bottom of the tub are a pile of shiny black cylinders: rolls of doggie poop bags. Some days there are one or two bags already unrolled and opened out, and from one of the cylinders I peel off enough bags to give us five open bags**. I open out and stuff three in my pockets and set aside two for Susan, who is usually coming down the stairs about this time.
While Susan dons her shoes, on warm mornings -- say from early march to late October -- I go fill a bottle of water for Kaylee and drop it in a pouch I carry from a strap over my shoulder. Then we don masks, make sure I have my hat, keys and the cell phone, and if the day is bright, my sunglasses. Finally Susan rigs up Zoe's harness and I do Kay Lee's, then out the door we go.
It makes me tired just thinking about it.
Probably you too. But thanks for listenin' anyway, Gentle Reader.
Next Time: The Daily Grind, Part 2 - The Walk
*If Austin isn't the allergy capital of the planet, somebody else is fudging their numbers. If you don't have allergies when you come here, you will. Count on it.
**Kay Lee has been known to pinch three loaves on our travels, Zoe only two.
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