I like routine.
It saves me from having to think about stupid stuff.
So I get Chinese food on Friday, do my shopping on Saturday, and take a trip to Bubbles on Kennedy Boulevard on Sunday to do laundry (which an occasional trip to Secaucus if the JKF store doesn’t have The Times).
I used to go to breakfast at the Coach House on Saturday where I could look over the published copy of my newspaper and ponder the universal meaning of life.
Now I just stop in there for a cup of coffee to go before crossing the street to the Salvation Army where I search for DVDs to replace the VHS tapes I watch while exercising.
This week, I had a bunch of stuff to donate, especially a bunch of books – many of which I have acquired for my Kindle. I also sorted through my summer clothing as I changed for winter wear, and found some things are too old or ragged, or even too large for me to wear.
They had a book table out on the sidewalk with piles of interesting volumes that drew my eye even as I was dumping books inside. Between trips, I noticed the pile at grown and was attracted to several volumes I had not seen during my previous trip, volumes that seem to broach subject areas – such as history of New Jersey and poetry – that I’m always looking for.
I stopped and perused several of these until I realized that they were some of the same books I had just dropped off. The guy inside was bringing them out as fast as I could bring them in.
At least, I know my own tastes.
From there, I normally journey to the Shop Rite in
North Bergen – going to the Big Lots store first, the dollar store
and then the food store.
But half way down
traffic came to a halt. The road was closed and I was directed back up onto Kennedy Boulevard where more streets were closed, and traffic looked
like it does before a major holiday.
I decided it was easier to go home and wait out the quagmire in the comfort of my own home – I’ve decided to learn all the songs of The Beatles’ first album now that I have an electric guitar again.
I guess I’m caught up with John Lennon again. He would have been 75.
It’s called making lemonade when life gives you lemons. Or in my case, making “Lennon-aid.”