Anyone who knows me knows that I am an avid rule follower, both of rules created by others and of rules created by myself. I’ve never been a rebel, and I’ve even expressed frustration for the rebels around me. My world, to the best of my control, is orderly and based in a series of regimens that only alter with express purpose. My desk is clean (mostly), my chores are neatly scheduled in my Reminders app, and my nighttime routine is unchanging.
Last night, I broke the rules.
Saturdays usually follow a structure: wake up, work out (hopefully), get coffee, do a predetermined task, go home, make dinner, clean up, play with cats, go to bed (around 10:15). Yesterday, I didn’t work out (because I woke up too late), saw a friend for coffee, and then hung out with my parents. At around 5pm, I found myself at home with two sleepy cats and a huge pit of dread in my stomach. When my partner, Nathan, came home, he said he wanted to eat an early dinner, so we ate as we watched an episode of Gilmore girls (the one where Richard goes to the hospital with “a touch of angina” in Season 1). Then, I just sat there, feeling unending dread, bored out of my mind.
It was around 8:30pm, and I wasn’t tired, and I wasn’t happy.
Routine has always been important to me. As someone who struggles with transitions (both small and large), having a routine for everything has given me tools to adapt to transitions more comfortably. Growing up, I lived with three other people and didn’t always have perfect control over the goings on in the house, which often elevated my anxiety. Now that I am an adult, I try to keep my life organized so that I feel safe and put-together. Nothing phases me because I am already prepared for anything.
And then last night, it was 8:30pm. The pit in my stomach was dread, but as I consulted with the pit in my stomach, I realized it was dread about the fact that I was bored. Is this what life is supposed to be? Comfortably done eating dinner and ready to get ready for bed by 8:30? Is that it? Waiting for it to be time for work again and counting down the minutes until it is time to accomplish something? It is the most privileged crisis imaginable, I know, yet still felt unbearable.
Between 8:30 and 10:30pm, I was convinced that my life was over, that nothing could be done to address my languishing. Perhaps this stems from a response to the two-ish years of social isolation starting in 2020, maybe from the fear of changing the routine, maybe from the stress of my job, maybe from living through an endless stream of atrocities and crises over the last several years: probably a combination of all of the above. I cried, I hyperventilated, I laughed at Nathan’s attempt at making cookies (inspired by his pie crust recipe, truly horrible idea, but sweet as an attempt). I said, “I’m afraid that this is the life I am going to have.” I was already in my pajamas, so I was destined to go to bed anxious with my doom.
Writing this down, I recognize the silliness of my thoughts, but I still want to tell the whole story because it helps me process.
It was time to leave. I told Nathan this, changed out of my actual pajamas into pajama pants and a sweatshirt: my “going out” outfit for the evening. We went downstairs, read a notice about recent car robberies at our apartment complex, got in the car, and left. It was 10:30pm, well past my bedtime.
That is how we ended up in the drive-thru of a McDonald’s for the first time in years, hoping that their ice cream machine would work. That is also how we ended up sitting in Nathan’s car, sharing a chocolate milkshake and a bag of fries, chatting about how rebellious we were, being out at 10:45pm. And how we ended up driving around the fairgrounds well after dark, admiring the lights of the rides and the hordes of people exiting (because it was almost 11pm). And that is how we ended up driving into the mountains and back, as I hoped Nathan would forget I accidentally dropped a French fry underneath his seat.
We got home at 11:30. At night.
My favorite part was the fries. And the driving into the mountains. The fries were my favorite because holy cow! Nobody told me that McDonald’s fries were that good. They were salty, the ideal temperature, crunchy, just perfect. There weren’t too many, so I didn’t get sick of them by the end. They tasted like staying up too late, like spontaneity. The driving into the mountains was my favorite because that part is always my favorite; I felt the difference in setting—from the lights of the city, the chaos and brokenness, to the quiet, the darkness of the mountains, with the stars much more visible than from my home. And because I was able to be in the passenger seat, next to Nathan, talking about the fact that we were breaking the rules and it felt so monumental.
For so much of my life (all of it), I have seen the rules as basically good and “there for a reason.” This isn’t to say that I don’t disagree with some laws and lots of governmental decisions and the larger social rules we’ve put in place in this world. I despise many of those rules. But for me, for the rules I’ve chosen for myself, the rules have been good to me. They’ve kept my life structured, helped me feel safe, kept me sane. But in my quest to have the most perfect, inflexible life, I stopped recognizing that I made up the rules, that I don’t have to follow them every second of every day.
And, perhaps, it also goes back to the idea of expectations. If you only do what is expected of you, you won’t grow very much. And if you only do what you expect, you may not do anything worthwhile at all.
Have a good week, everyone. :)
Congrats Gnomes, I love reading about your rebellious side and knowing Nathan was supportive!
Sometimes you just have to take a break from self imposed rules!