Usual

I have discovered that I am — like a child or a pet — someone who thrives on routine. I seem to crave a life of relative predictability, punctuated by brief bouts of spontaneity, of the unusual.

When I was younger I imagined myself to be a free spirit, a latter-day hippie, changing course on a whim. I thought I would travel the country with only a backpack and a bus pass. I would talk to strangers in coffeehouses and dance barefoot in the park at night. I would take long and aimless hikes; I would skinny-dip in August.

I never did any of those things. As it happened, that was not who I became. Instead, I am comforted by staying home and thankful to have formed habits. It turns out that this is what makes me happy.

After many years, it is a relief to accept that and let it be.