I walk downstairs almost thoughtlessly. In the kitchen, I reach into the fruit dish for an apple, one of a whole bag of tart honeycrisp we hauled home from their native Minnesota. I proceed to the basement without turning on a light until I get into the back door hallway, because this morning, at least, the cat's still asleep and not walking between my feet.
Once down the steps, instinctively almost, I go to the clothes tree where I leave my workout stuff, dress, take my dirty Nikes off the rack, and head into the basement study, having by now taken at least three loud bites of that honeycrisp.
Snap on the computer, mindlessly.
I've got nothing to say. Read Drudge. Read HuffPost. Letterman?--who gives a rip? Still nothing.
Look at the clock. It's already 20 minutes after, and every Monday morning I leave at 5:40 for the gym. It's clockwork.
Still nothing. Think thanks, I tell myself. Be thankful.
But I'm too ornery because I'd rather be getting up in "up north" Minnesota, no matter what the weather. Still, my old chair sits much better than the one at the table in the cabin, and this wide keyboard fits my hand far better than the laptop's. What's more, I know that I need that blasted workout. Sweet as it was to be away, getting back home isn't as bad as I'm making it out to be.
Still, dang it.
Can someone be petulant to himself? If so, I am.
We love ritual--or at least I do. Half the time, when we step away, it feels great only because ritual itself is as deep as it is. But then, when ritual turns into ruts, it's time to leave the beaten path for the northwoods.
This morning, I'm thankful for this wonderful old chair of mine and my ergonomic keyboard, no matter how much in need of cleaning. I'm thankful for the rec center, the weights and the step machine. I'm thankful for a good workout. Okay, I'm thankful to have been returned.
Still, doggone it!--this morning's honeycrisp is one, sweet treasure.