A typical weekday for me involves waking up to the alarm clock at 6am. I use the bathroom, turn off the porch light, turn off the alarm, turn on my computer and monitor, let the dogs out, feed the dogs, feed the cats, feed the fish. The coffee is on a timer and usually made by then. I let the dogs back in and then pour myself a cup. Add cream and sugar. Stir. Then, sit down to write until about 6:50am. My morning routine is practically an exact science of steps which I complete in 4 to 6 minutes each morning.
By the time I sit down at the computer, J has usually wandered out of bed and into the shower. He gets dressed and sits on the bed to watch the morning news. While he’s in the shower, I’ve usually checked email and the blogs, and then began working on whatever I’m writing at the moment. I join him at 6:50am, sometime 7am, to watch the last of the news and the first 5 to 10 minutes of the Today Show.
Then, he leaves for work. We say our good-byes and I pour another cup of coffee. I sit back at the computer until 7:30am, sometimes 7:40, to keep writing. I usually turn on some music to listen to until it’s time for me to shower and dress for work. At which time, I’m usually done by 8am, or 8:10, and rushing out the door no later than 8:20am. I’m only 5 minutes from work so I’m always on time. I have to be there at 8:30am.
J left yesterday morning for another week of job training in Indy. He hasn’t had to go since the 3 weeks in December. It’s odd having him gone. It’s like part of my morning routine is missing. Sure, I’ve fed the dogs and made the coffee and here I sit at the computer, but I can’t manage to write anything except for this post in my blog. It’s as if him sitting in the other room waiting for the Today show is somehow an odd muse for me. The words come easier when I can look across the house and through the bedroom doorway and see his face over the foot board.
I always like to think with him gone for a few days, I’ll do nothing but write since he’s not here to occupy my time, but I know that’s never true. It’s harder for me to write when I’m alone. Isn’t that odd?
It’s almost as if everything has been put on pause, and instead I’m sitting in a giant waiting room, waiting for J to get back so that we can get back to the way things were. Being alone like this is a strange reminder of how things were five years ago when I actually lived alone. This definitely isn’t me anymore. I liked being alone back then. I was content. I came home from work each night and worked on my first book. But now is much different. It’s like I’m just waiting…