My Way

I am so guilty of having a particular way of doing things and confusing my way with the right way as if how I wash dishes were the only way to wash dishes. The object of course is to have germ free dishes to put in the cabinet, grease free and ready to use again. Intellectually I know that no one way is correct, but somehow, my way gets elevated in my mind.

This happens with almost every familiar task, but rarely with unfamiliar jobs. For instance, I am not bound to a routine for filling the gas tank, my husband does that more often than I do. While I occasionally am the last one to go to bed, the routine of locking up is not ingrained in my bones. I lack the feeling of doing it right or wrong.

On the other hand, have you ever tried to change where you locate the kitchen trash can or moved your coffee or tea pot to a new location? My brain likes certain things predictable while others can be free and loosely structured. There is a right way to sleep, a right way to brush my teeth and a right way to wash my face, as if the routine were written in stone and bronzed.

We are interesting in our absurdities.