Creature of Habit

     I have become a creature of habit.  That is not something I intended to do.  In fact, I have resisted the idea for most of my life.  I want to be young, spontaneous, unpredictable, and interesting.  I want to be the dashing young man with a careless curl and devil-may-care attitude.  I did not choose to be old, spectacled, plain, or boring.  I did not plan thinning white hair and skinny white legs.  As time passed, some habits seem to have eased into my daily life without permission and altered my persona.  Perhaps there is still time to change.

     I read somewhere that habits are, at first, strings—then they become cables.  I’d guess my habits right now are somewhere between the kite string and the nylon rope stage.  I may be able to change some of them, but I really don’t have the will, or desire, to change others.  I didn’t count on that.  I expected to always resist the urge to be predictable, but I find that I actually enjoy some repetitive behavior.

     For instance, at about six-thirty each morning, I pull the tea kettle off the shelf on my stove, fill it with cold water, put it on the front, right-hand burner, and set the burner on high.  I take the French press from the dishwasher, place it in its precise position on the counter, put 4 1/3 scoops of Eight O’clock Columbian coffee beans into the grinder and count to nine while it grinds.  The coffee gets too powdery if I let it go to ten or more and is full of chunks and half-beans if I cut it off too early. I put the properly ground beans into the press and wait for the water to boil.

     The tea pot whistles when the water is ready, but I don’t hear it.  When I brought the contraption home from Der Kutchen Laden and it didn’t whistle, I was furious.  I planned to take it back and give them a piece of my mind.  Charlotte suggested I settle down.

     Turns out I have a high frequency hearing loss and do not hear that particular sound.  Same for the alarm on my Wal-Mart wrist watch.  It goes off at odd times and my grandchildren say, “Mac, your watch is beeping.  You need to turn it off.” 

     I have no idea how to turn it off.  I didn’t turn the damn thing on.  I just ignore it and go about my business as if I’m not beeping like sonar on a World War Two submarine. The kids exchange knowing looks and roll their eyes.

     When I see the steam blowing out the top of the kettle, or when Charlotte yells from the bedroom to stop the whistling, I pour the boiling water into the glass beaker and stir the mixture with a long-handled spoon I keep for that purpose.  The spoon is always in a container on the drain board so I can find it.  Others around the house have learned not to fiddle with my coffee spoon.  A knife or a fork or even another spoon does not work the same.  I need to stir my coffee with THAT spoon or it won’t taste right.  If the spoon is misplaced, my coffee gets cold while I search for it.

     After I stir the coffee with my spoon, I let it steep for three minutes and twenty-eight seconds, or longer if I want it stronger.  When I push down the plunger, the kitchen fills with a heavenly aroma and the beaker fills with fresh, rich, flavorful coffee.  I pour the brew into one of my special mugs and sit down to watch television and work a crossword puzzle.  (For more on the special mugs, see “Coffee Cups” in this blog on 8-5-13)

     I say “watch” television because I set the sound low, just loud enough to hear the commercials.  At that level, it is impossible to hear or understand the programs.  That is fine with me, because the programs at that time of day are all morning news.  I watch the Fox bunch, not because of my political leanings, but because the news is delivered by good-looking women in short, tight dresses.  I don’t give a whit about the news, but I enjoy watching the girls squirm and jiggle while they talk.

     Fox likes to bring in a lot of “guest experts” and sit them down on a rounded sofa, facing the camera.  They are experts about different subjects--psychology, mathematics, economics, the stock market, or world peace, but you can bet they’ll have some things in common.  They will be nice-looking, long-legged, well-built women in short skirts, wiggling around on that couch, showing a little cleavage and trying to make their case without flashing the  TV camera.  If they bring on any of the arrogant know-it-alls—Geraldo, The Donald, or Pat Roberson, I just switch over to CNN and watch the liberal cuties over there.

     I “listen” to the commercials because I get a kick out of the disclaimers.  Most of the commercials are about medicine, which says something about who is watching at six am.  They say, “Ask your doctor about so-and-so.”  They want you to think the doctor appreciates your advice.  They also want to give him a little nudge in the direction of so-and-so, just in case he hasn’t already thought of it.  The announcer low-talks real fast and tells you to watch out for the side effects of so-and-so, which may include body parts dropping off, kidneys locking up, and livers exploding, to name the most common.

     There is always a Cialis commercial, which focuses on two consenting adults on a deserted beach, relaxing in separate footed bathtubs.  Oddly enough for this day and age, the consenting adults are of opposite sexes.  As the golden sun sets, music plays softly in the background, and a quiet-voiced announcer tells you to call your doctor if you have an erection lasting more than four hours.  If I take one of those pills and that problem arises at my house, there are several people I might call to help with it.  My doctor is not on that list.

      As I said at the outset, if I decide I want to, I may be able to change some of these habits.  I probably should, just to demonstrate that I’m on board with the spirit of hope and change.  All the same, I’m not about to quit watching good-looking women squirm around in tight skirts.  Maybe I’ll try instant coffee.