Wednesday, 07 November 2001 | Ritual

Approximately 6:15. Hear the NPR blaring in my right ear. See Leeches standing on top of my alarm clock, her paw on top of the radio ON button. Close her out of my room and go back to sleep. 7:17. The first wave of alarms goes off. Hit snooze. Give the other cat a sleepy pet and go back to sleep. 7:34. Second wave of alarms. Repeat: snooze, pet Jane, sleep. 7:45. Roll out of bed and make my way through the blurry house to the bathroom. Put in my contacts, and follow a trilling Jane to her bowl. Feed Jane, and get her fresh water. Feed Leeches, and get her fresh water. Feed Amtrak, and get her fresh water and a saucer of warm milk. Toast waffles. Damn. It's almost 8:00.

7:55. Sift through the pile of clothes on my floor, but abandon the project to check out the outdoor thermometer. Resume sifting. Wonder if anyone at work has noticed that I wear the same black pants every other day. Decide no one has, and put them on. 8:05. Brush my teeth, pack my lunch, fill a water bottle, and rescue my waffles from the toaster. Ignore Jane, who's already asking for more food. Let Leeches outside. Sit with Amtrak and let her chew on my hair and bury her tiny face in my neck. 8:13. Grab the eighty-two bags I take to work (and never need) and slowly scan my room to look for things I might be forgetting. 8:15. Leave the house. Notice that Leeches wants to come back inside via the room where the kitten is, guide her back in, and stand over her while she eats two more bites. Practice burning patience as Leeches stands in the doorway, indecisive. 8:18. Put a tape in, take the usual route, chew on dry waffles, and hope for better traffic.

Every weekday, the same slice of minutes, the same pattern. Do you have one too?