This morning, the kitchen at work was overflowing as usual with bagels the size of my ass -- at least, the size of my ass now, after I've been eating these super-size beauties for close on 8 years.
But there was no wholewheat everything.
I was so looking forward to scooping out the doughy inside -- not to save calories, rather to pack in more scallion cream cheese. Nibbling the toasty oniony bits on the outside. Wondering if I really could finish the whole thing, finding I could...and then wondering if a 3rd half would be overdoing it.
There was a bialy in the basket -- that was a novelty. But bialys are what I have on Sunday with the kids.
My distress isn't really about bagels. Or bialys. It's about finding comfort and safety in routine. One little island of the expected in the middle of a life that is anything but.
I used to loathe routine. New, unexpected, spur of the moment is way more appealing. I scoffed at people who vacationed in the same place every year. Balked at the notion of spaghetti every Thursday. But when my boys came along, I realized that we need a little routine. It makes life simpler, and saner.
- Brush your teeth before you come downstairs, otherwise we will be running back up 3 flights to retrieve your toothbrush when we should be at the bus stop
- Study for tests ahead of time. Remembering on Sunday at 7:00 pm that you have a statewide science test the next morning is not going to put mummy in a good mood
- Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday are "hairwash" nights. This gives me time to recover from the ordeal and steel my nerves for the next time
I hate the fact that I have embraced routine. It sounds so...dull.
I prefer ritual. It sounds more considered, foundational, spiritual even.
Hey, that means my weekly carb coma might actually be some kind of spiritual trance. Leave me alone people, I'm busy transcending.
I always knew Bagel Friday served a higher purpose.
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