I adore routines. They’re the BEST because they mean that nothing changes and and I’m pretty comfortable with that. I want reliability and dependability. I’ve lived in the same state since I was nine, and I’m OK with that because I’ve lived in different cities (probably all within a 50-mile radius) and that’s adventurous enough or me. When I read that common advice to change just one thing on your daily routine, just to vary things a bit, that sounds exciting. I can handle brushing my teeth AFTER I wash my face, but probably not much more. I’m writing this from my favorite coffee shop, where I show up every Wednesday at 1:30 (after What Not to Wear) and the owner greets me with “Coffee with room?” and I plug in my MacBook next to the tacky floral chair.

My dear friend JJ once said that Sundays remind her of me and yoga because Sunday means two things: not interacting with people more than I have to, and asanas. I like having a routine I could even copyright, because who doesn’t love introverted Sundays with yoga on the side?

My dear friend Kathryn (no blog) and I have a standing Wendesday night date. We’re both kind of fanatic about yoga, so we sometimes need to have a formal time to get together, but let’s face it: We’re also both dependent on routines. During the summer, we swam at her apartment complex’s pool on Wednesday evenings. Now that the pool has closed, we need to come up with a new plan, but it will include Wednesday nights, junk food for dinner, Facebook stalking, and love of the subjunctive tense.

At work, I sometimes assist the doctor with abortions. We have two operating rooms, and when the healthworkers divide up duties for the day, they ask, “You want OR 1 or 2?” “ONE,” I always declare before anyone else can say something. The rooms are not dissimilar, but the set up and flow are marginally different. I have never actually worked in OR 2 because I am so spatially comfortable in OR 1–I would probably get disoriented and forgetful in the other one, and no one likes forgetfulness in abortion.

Last night, I was even full of anxiety dreams. In one, I was surrounded by people who were free spirits, carefree and footloose (who looked like how I think the Jonas Brothers might look), who made me 12 hours late to work. I spent most of the dream yelling at them to get with the program and get me to work in the UPS truck I was inexplicably driving. In another, my recent recurring dream, I was in a high school with a schedule that somehow varied day to day, and I was sweating over trying to recall where I was supposed to be and when and WHY.

I’m pretty sure that this love of routines comes from needing safety and consistency because the world is scary and people are weird and I’m sort of prone to being super-sensitive. And none of that sounds particularly healthy, but honestly, screw “healthy.” I’m all about predictable.