by Chien Wen
Step 1: Add the detergent
It’s strange: how something that I was once pedantic about—pouring just the right volume of detergent into the machine—has become nothing but an unremarkable part of my day. I crouch on the floor, the lone figure in the room, because who else would wake up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to do their laundry apart from myself?
Yet, it has never been that simple. Dragging myself out of bed to finish a mundane chore used to be easier said than done. Months later, I find solace in the soft whir of the laundry room’s dryers. Pouring the detergent marks the beginning of a routine. For someone obsessed with planning every second down to a tee, there’s a kind of static comfort in knowing that something needs to be done and doing it.
With routine, however, comes habit. Then predictability. And, in recent times, restlessness.
Step 2: Load the washing machine
I pile the clothes on top of one another, making a small mountain inside the box of the machine. I laugh dryly at the shirt that slides off the heap.
I find this similar to scheduling my days, which usually goes something like this: I flip open my planner and clinically mark my tasks against a timesheet. Wake up at 6am. Breakfast at 7am. Attend lecture at 11am. Cook dinner at 6pm. Write essay from 8pm to 10pm. Day by day, the tasks slot themselves neatly into their respective hours, slowly shaping into a nice little routine that I absent-mindedly scribble down in the margins of the paper.
Before I know it, every page mirrors the last one, chalked up with the same endless, monotonous tasks. I don’t think much of it. I turn the planner back to its cover, the same way I click the lid of the washing machine shut. Click. Everything that comes afterwards is a corollary of my own actions: a cycle of routine.
Step 3: Start the machine
I press one button, then another. The machine beeps, and just like that, the cycle begins. I watch the clothes whirl and swirl from behind the circular window briefly before moving onto the next task.
When a cycle begins, it’s difficult to break it. Once I’ve sunk into a habitual routine, there is little incentive for me to leave the comfort zone. It is because of routine that there is predictability in my life, and thus control and certainty. Like the washing machine, I can control the start of the cycle. I can be certain of every one of its stages: wash, rest, rinse, spin. I can be certain of how long it’ll take before the machine sings its merry tune, signaling the end of its wash.
I can be certain of everything.
Certainty, for someone who fusses over every small detail, who stresses over the most trivial of mistakes, who sets expectations that soar above and beyond, helps me remain grounded on my feet. But as the years have gone by, I’ve come to realize that sometimes certainty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
Ultimately, boredom sets in. The novelty of routine rinses away like the soap suds on my jeans. Because every hour has been confined to a task I know I’ll have to do, there’s nothing particularly exciting about waiting around for the time to come. Every day ends the same as yesterday, and eventually, there is nothing to look forward to at all. Self-satisfaction evolves into resentment against my routine, and consequently, against my own self.
Step 4: Hang the clothes out to dry
The machine beeps once, then twice. On the third time, I click the lid open to reveal my sodden clothes before tossing them into my laundry bag.
Once in a while, something threatens to break the cycle. A phone call from home. A text message from a friend offering to get coffee together. A ticket to a concert or a trip up for grabs. Unless absolutely necessary in my books, I’ve found myself writing them off in exchange for zero disruption or delay.
The flow remains uninterrupted, and I go on with my day.
I realize now that I embody the very same monotonicity associated with routine. Being inflexible to change has cost me opportunities and hindered my growth as a person. I have lost chances at fostering friendships and creating memories simply because I couldn’t stand the thought of having my plans interfered with. In the face of uncertainty, I have turned down the road less traveled time and time again, foregoing vital life lessons in adaptation and resilience.
Even something as good as routine has its extremes, and perhaps I have exhausted its means to the end of its purpose.
When I turn to the laundry bag now, a question weighs heavily in my mind. Do I leave this problem out to dry in the hopes that this too shall pass? Or do I ditch my plans altogether and fling myself unto the hinterland?
Step 5: Repeat (?)
I slip a shirt over my hanger before hooking it on the drying rack. The wind rushes in through a crack in the window, bringing with it the warmth of blossoming spring.
In search of an answer, I have settled for an in-between. Each day, I continue to plan out my day. Wake up at 6am. Breakfast at 7am. Attend lecture at 11am. Within the intervals of time, however, I leave room for unexpected events. For new plans. Text a friend and ask if they want to grab brunch together. Visit that marketplace you’ve always wanted to go to. Learn a recipe for a new dish.
Walking away from the gravitational pull of familiarity is difficult; scary, even. But the sense of satisfaction I get from accomplishing something new beats the humdrum of a routine I used to shackle myself to. With time, the discomfort will wash away to leave room for new possibilities. That, I am sure of.
Of course, I’ll still be doing my laundry. I’ll repeat the same steps, the same cycles, the same processes I always have and perhaps always will. With this spring clean, though, I await a renewed sense of hope in myself and the adventures I wish to pursue, through something as simple as a break away from the certainty of routine.