9:37 p.m.

Some of the most wild and crazy days are the ordinary ones. Today, for instance. This morning I woke up and remembered to say, “Good morning.” Which is unusual for me. Usually, I begin with a complaint. A bad dream or an ache from sleeping in the wrong position. Today, I had my customary breakfast, bran cereal with blueberries. I broke a few pecans over the bowl. I vary the fruit or the nuts, but the regular weekday thing is bran. That is unusual, to have anything customary. Having grown up in a severely dysfunctional home, the only thing that could be counted on was the fact that I did not know whether or not my mother would be home that night or the next day. It has only been the last three or four years, at the age of fifty, I have really noticed “customary”. Routines have slipped into my life, and for the most part, I welcome them. It is my custom to wake up and eat breakfast. It is my custom to follow with coffee, if I am lucky—deep, savory, French vanilla. It is my custom to sit in the parlor, read bits of the paper, end with Dagwood or Zits and glance out my bay window at the summer-high grass or the trees that fill out the frame. I dental floss now fairly regularly, something I previously thought myself incapable of doing. My socks always match. Despite all this, my husband reflects that I am never boring. His tone makes me wonder if he is being entirely complimentary. Nevertheless, I have learned how lovely boring, or at least run of the mill, can be. No cracked dishes. Routines. Emptying the dishwasher, setting the table. The important thing, not to forget. Not to forget the beauty of a bowl brimming with breakfast, the luxury of cream, or the cardinal at the bird feeder. Also, not to forget my brothers and sisters waking up, just hoping the new day will not hurt so much.