New Routines, New Traditions
My life is saturated with newness. Today I got a new throw pillow, which is certainly trivial in the grand scheme of whatever, but it means that my NYC life is starting to take shape and color. This weekend, I tried a new bagel place, saw a new part of Central Park, and started a new book. Something else notable and new happened this weekend, as well, though I will say no more.
To pivot slightly, when I asked my family what I should write about this week, they said the Steelers. At 8-0—by the pigskin of our teeth (excuse me for that one)—the historic season is something worth writing about. But what’s slightly more interesting is the way this season has been a new experience for me, as an individual, and is an example of the new traditions that arise organically with every new chapter of life.
I am no longer huddled in my spot on our corduroy couch, white-knuckling a Terrible Towel while my dad paces and my mom interjects excitedly over her school work at the back table. Now, I am sitting on an air mattress (the couch is set to arrive this week) and teaching my roommate the rules of the game as we watch together. She laughs and develops concern as I curl into the fetal position with every turnover. It’s a new tradition we have, finding each other in the living room on game day, bonding as roommates over something that’s bonded me with many before her.
Take The Times’ crossword puzzle as another example. When the first half of the paper would arrive at our house on Saturday mornings, I’d run barefoot and pajama-clad down the driveway so I could work on the puzzle with breakfast. I had a favorite pen that my parents hated because it ripped through the paper if you pushed too hard. Now, I complete the puzzle on my laptop, frequently tempted to click that “check puzzle” option excluded from the hard copy. I also can’t shout excitedly “I figured out the trick” when I determine the wordplay or pattern that governs the puzzle and makes the rest much easier. I scream it in my head, instead.
My life has taken a new shape to fill this new space. Fridays mean The Great British Baking Show. Weekday mornings plus motivation means runs on the East River Esplanade. Weekends mean a trip uptown to Central Park for a run and then back down to the Murray Hill Diner. We have identified our favorite Indian place and where to get the best pizza nearby. I know that the doorman whose name tag says “James” prefers Jimmy and that concierge Don is a Steelers fan.
But routines are still finding shape in my life. I still have not nailed down the absolute best time to pop over to Trader Joe’s, even though I can see the line from my window. I have yet to decide on the best time to do laundry. Part of me misses the routine of the last chapter, and part of me yearns to cement the patterns of now, so I can feel safe to stray from the patterns. Life is just, well, different, which makes perfect sense. And different isn’t bad. Different means an extra block of walking to get my favorite bread (Dave’s Killer Bread—try it) and watching This Is Us without my mom (but still crying just as much).
As they say, different is scary, but different is also exciting. Blah blah blah. You get it. My life is in a new phase. I mean, that’s why I started this blog in the first place—to explore this newness through the written word. But “blah blah blah” also means, yeah, this is what happens when you grow up. Expect it.
I’m sitting here in my new bed, with my old laptop, wearing a new watch, resting under an old blanket, and realizing that even the newest, most different of routines and traditions are sustained by those of the past. It’s kind of like when we talk about bias in English class, but of course I won’t bore you with that. I’ve taken enough of your time. Now go out and celebrate the downfall of our soon-to-be-ex Cheeto in Chief.
Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself.