‘I hate those ruts,’ I shout, as I beat away a mosquito. A mosquito, in the middle of winter, but hey, they too seek warmth. Even though they don’t know what to do with this abandoned heavenly body. It smokes, it drinks. Sometimes much, usually less. I think that’s why they spontaneously forget where to prick me. Anyway, I wanted to talk about ruts specifically.

We had lunch in a warm brown café, and talked about life, men in general and in specific and our jobs, that too. After all those years of toiling between healthy and psychic menstruation, I still have the idea that I have to defend myself drastically. Although it is much nicer to leave everyone in the dark. And ‘sell’ myself as some extravagant diva, so to speak.

My bestie lives a very different rhythm than I do. She married young, had two wonderful children, and has a job. And can be jealous of my way of life, when she once again deliciously attacks her own lifestyle and phases. Sometimes we want to sneakily exchange with each other. Anyway, she can cope better with routine than I can.

How do you do that?

I spontaneously suffer from chagrin when it turns out that I have to endure the same ritual every day. Waking up every day at the same time. To turn that same rut into reality between snoozing and half dreaming. That feeling of Groundhog Day, you know! And that’s why you first brush your teeth out of protest and only then have breakfast. Or decide which job to choose where you can start and end flexibly each day. Kill your darlings, on that bike.

The crazy thing is, that as I get older I still don’t resign myself to that routine principle, but fight hard against it. It’s as if all those others are content with some kind of utopian comfort zone. Because no policy plan has yet been written for what I want to experience. Or can experience.

It’s as if I’m still fighting that piece of adult life. While I regularly volunteer as a good fairy and take care of my family as if it were written for me. And I definitely want to work hard, but even then don’t even take the time to get used to that miserable routine. As if there is a time bomb hidden in my head, which implode because time ticks a bit further and further.

With a bridge to later when there’s no choice but to grow up…

About the author


Hey hi, I’m Irene, my nick is Pix, and I blog since 2002. My writing lust makes me often grab the keyboard. All that, while consuming lots of coffee and chocolate bites, just because that creates such a beautiful flow. And uhm…, my hair also always looks mighty good…! See also my about-page.

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By Irene

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