Some people very, very close to me tell me that they think I'm become a little compulsive in my life. I reject that characterization. I've been known to leave a soiled pair of jeans over the back of my chair for several days at a time before putting them into the laundry basket. It has been several weeks now since I last washed our car. Does that sound like a compulsive disorder? Would a person afflicted with an obsessive, compulsive disorder allow that to happen?
I have to admit that there are some things about which I have a routine. (Doesn't everyone?) Probably the most visible routine I have has to do with the Bakery. Every morning I take my copy of the New York Times in hand and head for LaSalle Bakery, my daily morning haunt. It's just a few blocks from where we live, and...in good weather...it's a good walk both ways.
I've been going there nearly every day for over two years now. I always order the same thing: a bran muffin and a medium cup of decaf coffee. (Is that such a crime? Is that what makes me compulsive?) My routine is such that I no longer have to order. When I walk up to the counter my muffin is waiting, having been put aside by the employees early so that they don't run out before I get there. It always costs me the same thing: $3.46. It took them a few weeks at the beginning to recognize me, but now they know my name and, like Norm on Cheers my name rings out from behind the counter, or even from the kitchen when I'm spotted.
I try to sit at the same table every day. Sometimes it's crowded and I have to sit elsewhere...even at the window counter...but usually you can find me at the table next to the festively-decorated Birthday Cakes. (So, what's so bad about wanting a table away from the hustle and bustle of the cash registers?)
This is where the routine stuff really kicks in, though. I arrange the table so that the coffee (needing to cool) is at the back where my newspaper won't tip it over. I unwrap the muffin, cut it in half with a little plastic knife, and place half of it back in the wrapper next to the coffee. Then I proceed to cut the selected half in half again, and then in quarters. (So what!?! It's just easier to eat those tinier portions than chomping into a full muffin! What's the big deal?)
I'm there a good hour to an hour-and-a-half. Being retired has its advantages. During the course of that time I greet and am greeted by a mixture of great people who also frequent the LaSalle nearly every day. We talk sports, politics, weather...you name it. I'm a little bit more liberal in the political sphere than they are...but that doesn't keep us from having civil conversations. I know some of their names. Others are yet to come.
One tiny, elderly lady comes in to read the local paper. I took a liking to her a long time ago, and I get the feeling that maybe she doesn't have a large group of friends in her life any more. Dave, my new friend, has spinal stenosis, and walks with great difficulty. I admire him greatly...he forces himself to get out of the house and to the bakery every day. Everyone knows him. He is almost never without a conversation. One older lady has a caretaker who brings her in nearly every day. Obviously, her life has seen better days, but her stately presence at the Bakery is a reminder of those days when independence was more attainable.
Another couple come every day and have even greater routines than I do. They talk over each other, partly because their hearing isn't all that great. The wife once told me, "He loves you. He talks about you all the time." Not many people talk to him, it turns out. He does a lot of complaining. I kind of like him.
I do manage to get the Times read every day. I read every page in every section. (Oh, come on. What's so compulsive about that?) I just love the writing, and I've learned a lot about politics, finance, real estate, health, travel, cooking, dance and sports from the Times writers.I love the little quips on the back of the Science section. My favorite is Monday's column, Metropolitan Diary. It feeds my Manhattan-phile condition.
When I'm finished I reorganize the paper and place it on the window counter for someone else to read. One man told me he times his bakery run by my presence so he can read the Times. Then I brush the crumbs onto the plate, stuff the muffin wrapper into the empty cup, push it down with the knife and insert the knife next to the wrapper, and fold the paper plate into thirds, capturing the crumbs and dropping them into the cup. (Okay, I'll concede that part. That's pretty compulsive!)
There are days, like today, when I don't get to the Bakery. Somehow, my day is a little off-kilter. But it makes the next day even better when I hear, "We didn't see you yesterday. Everything okay?" I was missed! Isn't that great?
Photo Credit:<;em>www.flickr.com/photos/nicisme/2447245080/
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