There is a degree of classism in hating routine.

PalmEver since enjoying routine became a privilege, they've made us hate it. "Back to routine": always negative, laden with regret. They've commercialized routine in favor of various gurus who promise to "say goodbye to it," as if solving a problem we didn't even know we had. Against routine, they've glorified the life of the digital nomad, the expat, working from the beach, weekend getaways. And, little by little, they've stripped it of its sacredness, its customary rituals, its everyday life, what happens to us all, the only things that unite us and make us equal: the coffee at the bar, the public transport card, the shopping cart. Routine is what makes us human, it's what makes us good people for a while. There's a touch of classism in the hatred of routine, in the resistance to being like a character from Tell me how it happenedThat is, a person who could be any one of us, interchangeable. There's a sense of superiority, of believing oneself less mortal than the rest, oblivious to the forces of nature.

We've ended up hating routine because we can no longer enjoy it, because Productivity has ended up occupying such a large space which leaves us with nothing but guilt: guilt for not making the most of every second. And routine isn't that; routine has nothing to do with being productive. Routine is rhythm, the repetition of things by default, things that aren't subject to the scrutiny of usefulness, things that are perfect by virtue of mastery. A balm that makes daily life more bearable. Little breaks in which to take refuge. And not being able to enjoy it means that there are certain minimums that aren't guaranteed. We claw our way out of banal, mundane things, reducing them to mere formalities, actions without grace or mystery, as if—after all—these weren't the backbone of our days, the largest sector in the pie chart into which we divide life. What could be more important than enjoying what we do each day?

In my case, the list of things I like to repeat every dayEvery day, or every week, should include: a morning snack of coffee and toast, choosing what to wear, having a set day for exercise, reading on the bus to and from Palma, going grocery shopping and letting the cashier question my choice of chips for my main course, and making dinner with my boyfriend, for example. If I can't enjoy these things, it means the rest isn't working, that the week/month/quarter is a disaster, that I'm going too far. to leave that life simply passesI'd love to do myself a favor, not make my life so difficult, not be angry all day because I should be doing one of the thousand things I have to do. I suppose it's also about doing less. Does anyone actually manage it, doing less? I don't know if it's just me resisting it, if it's a habit. I don't know what I do with my time. It's simply not there, and I don't know where to go to get it back.

Routine makes us feel like we have time on our side.

Routine could be the most wonderful thing in the world, if only we took the time to dignify it. Sometimes, I observe other people's routines, like a spectator, as if it were an art form. When the world is still waking up, from the car window, getting up early seems like a poetic act, as if life were preserving the pause it deserves. Everything is still in its place, everything is less urgent, before it rushes on. I see it, for example, in the two girls in uniform smoking their first cigarette of the day together, outside the shop, minutes before opening, with the tranquility of having—for now—time on their side, of knowing that this is sacred. And in my friend, whom I watch cross the pedestrian crossing where I'm standing, without saying a word, without hindering his slow, deliberate pace, which transforms his walk to work into a stroll. Or in my colleague, who has the power to make the morning start a little later when she decides to leave home five minutes earlier and have a coffee on the way to the office, still sleepy, calm, unconscious.

Routine gives me certainty, the confidence that things can be accomplished, for better or for worse. Routine gives me the comfort of knowing what should happen, the ability to anticipate, to savor the thought of what I'm going to do. It's something to cling to when it's Tuesday or when it's 10 a.m. It's that hour on the sofa before bed, Saturday dinner with friends, Sunday walk with my mother. It's what will come, however, and what comforts us. A lifeboat to turn to when everything is too uncertain, too burdensome, too complicated. Little service stations: rest and refuel. If we manage it well, routine can be like breaths of fresh air between strokes.