Flexibility in Life

routines are great...however!

One of the challenges everyone faces with age is routine and flexibility. Frankly, at 75, I’m a bit shocked when trying to coordinate gatherings with friends. You’d think we were trying to negotiate a Middle East peace agreement.

Some of it is physical. We all have parts that don’t bend like they used to.

But I’m convinced the greater danger isn’t physical stiffness. It’s psychological stiffness. We slowly build lives so perfectly organized that any deviation feels like an attack on civilization itself.

Travel helps fight that.

Coming home last week after two days of little sleep...humping suitcases and backpacks...waiting through flight delays...dealing with stressed fellow travelers and equally stressed airline staff...I was more than ready to get back to my regularly scheduled programming.

Coffee.

Reading.

Writing.

A breakfast I know works for me.

Maybe...if things went especially well...a nap.

I’d done my part for spontaneity. I’d paid my flexibility tax.

Or so I thought.

We live about a mile from our daughter and her family. We moved here to downsize from a house that required constant yard work, snow removal, and enough maintenance for a family of eight...despite there only being the two of us...and despite the fact I’m gone close to six months of the year.

It’s been one of the best decisions we’ve made.

The house sits right on the boys’ route home from school. Friends live all around. The grandsons know the door codes, which means they don’t really “visit.” They simply conduct inspections.

Nothing quite compares with waking from a late afternoon nap to discover a ten-year-old standing beside your recliner...breathing loudly enough to wake you...while somehow believing he’s being stealthy.

I’d barely landed back home on Wednesday, somewhere in the middle of an eight-hour time adjustment, when my daughter asked if I could take my youngest grandson…who somehow is now eleven…for the weekend while his older brother was at a baseball tournament.

“Sure.”

Why not?

Great way to adjust to jet lag.

Remain flexible.

Mind you, my partner is still working in Greece, so this became a Grandpa-only operation. Add two family dogs who required regular feeding, watering, exercising, and emergency bathroom runs...and suddenly I was running a small, poorly managed resort.

The next two and a half days were a success.

I survived.

He survived.

His buddy, who came over to swim and somehow ended up staying the night, survived.

The dogs survived.

There were meals. Swimming. Walks. Laughing. A surprising amount of negotiating over things that never occurred to me would require negotiation.

And, naturally...incidents.

One involved food, drinks, my iPad, my Mac, and several pieces of furniture.

Later came the announcement every grandparent dreads.

“Grandpa...your iPad won’t charge. It keeps saying there’s moisture in the USB-C connection.”

There shouldn’t *be* moisture in the USB-C connection.

Apparently a drink had been dropped...then enthusiastically opened...creating what can only be described as a localized beverage weather event.

The iPad got it.

The couch got it.

The floor got it.

Wednesday’s Genius Bar appointment will determine whether Apple warranties cover acts of grandchildren.

Patience, Grandpa.

Flexibility.

Then came our trip to the new Toy Story movie—which, appropriately enough, turns out to have a message about using imagination more and devices less.

Before leaving, my grandson and his friend each grabbed blankets and stuffed animals.

I assumed we were making an unexpected stop at daycare.

Nope.

Apparently this is now a thing.

Kids take blankets and stuffed animals to movies.

Every fiber of my routine-loving, seventy-five-year-old soul wanted to ask, “Since when?”

Instead, I shrugged.

By the middle of the movie, I was covered with one of the blankets...using a stuffed bear as a pillow...and, according to witnesses whose testimony seems entirely believable, snoring.

So much for maintaining standards.

The weekend ended.

I got home about 9:30 last night and went straight to bed.

This morning I carefully resumed my routine.

Coffee.

Reading.

Writing.

No trusted iPad.

I’m eagerly anticipating a nap.

But something occurred to me.

Routine is a wonderful servant. It makes life predictable. Comfortable. Efficient.

It’s just a terrible master.

Left alone long enough, routine slowly turns from structure into stone.

The funny thing is that grandchildren seem uniquely qualified to prevent that from happening.

They don’t care about your carefully crafted schedule.

They don’t care that you’ve finally figured out the perfect breakfast.

They don’t care that your iPad contains your entire digital life.

They’ll spill on it anyway.

They’ll drag blankets to movies.

They’ll wake you from naps by breathing dramatically next to your chair.

And if you’re lucky...they’ll also remind you that some of life’s best memories are made precisely because your plans got interrupted.

I still love my routine.

I just hope it never becomes more important than the people capable of wrecking it.