On the subject of profound observations no one has made before, I would like to observe that there is not enough time.
To have a good day, a day about which I don't feel a mild sense of failure, I would: walk the dogs for an hour, write creatively for an hour, exercise for 45 minutes, cook healthy meals and eat them in a non-rushed fashion, document the day in my paper journal, and of course read. This does not take into account errands, or cleaning, or bathing, or laundry. In the last six months there has also been the wrinkle that I want to talk to or text with Berowne every evening. And I work full-time.
I am not sure I have ever had this mythical good day during the week and still gotten to bed at a decent hour. If I was someone who could stay up until midnight, it would not be a problem. I am not that someone.
This morning I decided to try something new, and rose at four. I made my (decaf) coffee, brought my laptop into the bed (the downstairs is COLD in the morning), and wrote for an hour.
Oh, wait, that was the plan.
Reality: at four the alarm went off. I thought about it, hit snooze once, then got up. I started the coffee, did my thing in the bathroom, went back upstairs and released the hounds, took them outside, brought my laptop and a cup of coffee upstairs, put on some Beethoven, explained to Bingley that if he were to be allowed in the bed he could not wrestle with the covers, heard the horrible piercing chirp of a dying smoke or carbon monoxide detector, went downstairs to figure out which detector, discovered that Darcy had taken a tremendous dump in the living room despite having just been outside, cleaned up the dump, un-clogged the toilet (TREMENDOUS, I tell you), stood beneath the two detectors for ages waiting for another chirp, heard nothing, went back upstairs, heard the chirp, said, "IT CAN WAIT," drank some cold coffee, and wrote three terrible paragraphs about chamberpots.
And then it was five o'clock, and time for the dogs' walk. I hadn't realized it was snowing, because it was still hours from dawn. So we had a short, wet, slippery walk. Bingley insisted on taking his dump on the school grounds, which while shameful is still preferable to the living room.
We returned to the house, where I did a quick load of laundry, had breakfast, read and texted with Berowne while I ate breakfast, and continued to attempt tracking the detector beep, but since it was only beeping every twenty minutes, failed. (What IS this madness, seriously?)
This routine has potential. Of course, still on the docket for tonight after work is: take Darcy to the vet for his shots; possibly clean up a giant Darcy dump in the vet's waiting room; exercise; cook and eat dinner; do the dishes; smash the smoke detectors; shower; write in journal; go to bed early enough to get up at four again and not want to die. That is rather daunting. We shall see.