predictability . . .

While we all have our little routines we follow, for the most part our antics, since we are both retired and Katie is away at school, are rather unpredictable in that we can and often do, follow the wind. That is until we get to Sundays. Sundays just seems to flow on their own around here. Month after month, year after year, the routine stays the same. I get up, print off my grocery list, head out to thump the fruit, check fat contents and drool in the bakery aisle, come home, unpack, grab a cup of Swiss Mocha, wrest the comic section from Frank's paper, divest it of the crossword puzzle, make hash of my newest eraser, apply tape to those spots where I have worn clear through, crawl back into bed with three furry beasties tucked along side, wake up, divide and conquer the laundry, putter in the kitchen for dinner and crash in front of the TV with Frank, laptop . . . well, in my lap.

The only time this routine varies is if we are out of town or something major occurs. Prior to 2000, the other staple in our Sunday morning routine was a huge breakfast: bacon, eggs, pancakes, hash browns, juice etc. Until the fateful day I stuffed Frank full of goodies and watched him totter off to the living room to read the paper. Twenty minutes later we were flying through red lights and screaming into the ER. Once he stabilized from a full blown heart attack, they did a triple bypass. No more big breakfasts in this house. I was terrified I would murder him with food. Now his predictable Sunday morning breakfast is, as always, Wheaties, 1% milk, a banana, OJ and coffee.

But this morning eight years later, and a tad under the weather, he asked for pancakes. My heart still skips a beat at the thought of feeding them to him and was delighted to discover that the pancake box, shoved in the back of the fridge had expired in July of 07. No pancakes today. Yay, Wheaties!

So what is it about predictability that is so comforting? Why does it reassure that all is right with the world? That things are copacetic. Is it just the sheer pattern in our otherwise chaotic lives? I don't have the answer. I just know I love Sundays. They make me feel good, like hot chocolate on a cold morning or flannel sheets still warm from the dryer. Maybe I am just getting old. What predictable things make your life warm and fuzzy? I'd love to hear.