Starting a Routine
For the first week of surfing every day, every morning was a challenge.
My alarm clock went off at 5 a.m. and, wearily, I put my feet on the floor to go turn it off. I've always had to located my alarm clocks across the room from my bed. An alarm clock within arm's reach, for me, is a sure way to be late for everything. Still, I love the snooze button, and have been known to walk across the room four or five times to keep pressing it.
At five in the morning, my wife didn't show a lot of tolerance for snooze buttons. "Just go." she'd croak, while I was padding back towards the bed to snooze off ten more minutes, "Travis. I'm serious. Go. Get out. Leave."
Downstairs, I fumbled with the coffee machine, needing a morning cup of Joe to get things rolling. While I waited for the coffee, I ate some light breakfast.
By the middle of the first week, I began putting all my clothes for work on a single hanger. A pair of pants, a button down shirt and a belt would all go on the hanger. A pair of shoes was stuffed with a pair socks. In the beginning, I left my hanger and shoes near the kitchen table to be carried to the car before leaving. By the second week, I was putting the hanger and shoes into my truck the night before.
Aside from the work clothes, the surfboard, and some surf wax (normally bought ten bars at a time and stored in the refrigerator), there were a few personal hygiene items that I began keeping in my truck: a hair brush, some spray hair gel, and a stick of deodorant. To make the whole morning work out, I also used a three gallon drinking water jug, which had once been part of a kitchen drinking water dispenser. Three gallons of water, I found, is a pretty good shower after surfing. It's enough water to rinse my hair, my body, and my wetsuit.
All this preparation became quite a routine. Most days, I would come home from work and prepare for the next morning's surfing before even going into the house to sit down and rest.
Each day, Guenivere, my one year old daughter, looked up at the sound of my truck pulling up to the back patio of our townhouse. I parked in the service driveway temporarily to go through my routine. My kid, ever the participant, liked to help out.
Gwen ran to the back patio sliding glass door in time to see me walk into the fenced patio, carrying a surfboard, a towel and a wetsuit. I hung the wetsuit and the towel over the fence, and opened the glass door, letting the child run out into the afternoon.
She followed me to the truck, making up gibberish words and slapping her hands against anything in reach, while I retrieved the water jug and leftover clothing from the cab of the truck. Gwen watched intently as I filled the jug up from a garden hose, giggling uncontrollably when the jug filled and water spilled over the top.
She then followed me into the house, up the stairs (she crawls slowly up the stairs), and into the master bedroom, where I prepared my hanger of clothes for the next day. Back down the stairs we went. I had to carry her, as she has a tendency to stand at the top and cry.
Once out the back door, I picked up the three gallon jug and carried it, along with all the clothes, out to the truck. The jug went on the passenger side floor. The clothes were hung behind the seat.
I set the child on the passenger side seat, where she gleefully played with the gear shift, liberated that Daddy would let her in a car without a child seat. I got into the drivers seat, and started the car. We drove together without seatbelts for the extremely dangerous ten yards between our back porch and my parking spot in the street.
My wife came out of the back door. "Did you just drive her out to the street without a car seat?" she asked.
"No." I replied.
I would have gotten away with it, too, had not the child been screaming in excitement, waving her arms wildly and running in jumps from the passenger side of the truck.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
My alarm clock went off at 5 a.m. and, wearily, I put my feet on the floor to go turn it off. I've always had to located my alarm clocks across the room from my bed. An alarm clock within arm's reach, for me, is a sure way to be late for everything. Still, I love the snooze button, and have been known to walk across the room four or five times to keep pressing it.
At five in the morning, my wife didn't show a lot of tolerance for snooze buttons. "Just go." she'd croak, while I was padding back towards the bed to snooze off ten more minutes, "Travis. I'm serious. Go. Get out. Leave."
Downstairs, I fumbled with the coffee machine, needing a morning cup of Joe to get things rolling. While I waited for the coffee, I ate some light breakfast.
By the middle of the first week, I began putting all my clothes for work on a single hanger. A pair of pants, a button down shirt and a belt would all go on the hanger. A pair of shoes was stuffed with a pair socks. In the beginning, I left my hanger and shoes near the kitchen table to be carried to the car before leaving. By the second week, I was putting the hanger and shoes into my truck the night before.
Aside from the work clothes, the surfboard, and some surf wax (normally bought ten bars at a time and stored in the refrigerator), there were a few personal hygiene items that I began keeping in my truck: a hair brush, some spray hair gel, and a stick of deodorant. To make the whole morning work out, I also used a three gallon drinking water jug, which had once been part of a kitchen drinking water dispenser. Three gallons of water, I found, is a pretty good shower after surfing. It's enough water to rinse my hair, my body, and my wetsuit.
All this preparation became quite a routine. Most days, I would come home from work and prepare for the next morning's surfing before even going into the house to sit down and rest.
Each day, Guenivere, my one year old daughter, looked up at the sound of my truck pulling up to the back patio of our townhouse. I parked in the service driveway temporarily to go through my routine. My kid, ever the participant, liked to help out.
Gwen ran to the back patio sliding glass door in time to see me walk into the fenced patio, carrying a surfboard, a towel and a wetsuit. I hung the wetsuit and the towel over the fence, and opened the glass door, letting the child run out into the afternoon.
She followed me to the truck, making up gibberish words and slapping her hands against anything in reach, while I retrieved the water jug and leftover clothing from the cab of the truck. Gwen watched intently as I filled the jug up from a garden hose, giggling uncontrollably when the jug filled and water spilled over the top.
She then followed me into the house, up the stairs (she crawls slowly up the stairs), and into the master bedroom, where I prepared my hanger of clothes for the next day. Back down the stairs we went. I had to carry her, as she has a tendency to stand at the top and cry.
Once out the back door, I picked up the three gallon jug and carried it, along with all the clothes, out to the truck. The jug went on the passenger side floor. The clothes were hung behind the seat.
I set the child on the passenger side seat, where she gleefully played with the gear shift, liberated that Daddy would let her in a car without a child seat. I got into the drivers seat, and started the car. We drove together without seatbelts for the extremely dangerous ten yards between our back porch and my parking spot in the street.
My wife came out of the back door. "Did you just drive her out to the street without a car seat?" she asked.
"No." I replied.
I would have gotten away with it, too, had not the child been screaming in excitement, waving her arms wildly and running in jumps from the passenger side of the truck.
More Later
-Travis
copyright 2004 Travis R. English
posted by travinator @ 3:02 PM
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