kaet@rachacha.com
May 18, 2007

Lately, I've been obsessed with having my under-garments matching and contrasting to my over-garments. I used to be a mess, and I didn't care until I moved to the city; Rebecca, my roommate, is the Queen of Matching Colors, from tights and socks, to shirts and headbands/scarves. When dropping Sarah off at Penn Station (she was leaving for three months), I was still in sweats and I complained, "I hope you know my headband does not match my shoes, you better be happy with yourself!" as I was carrying her bag to the A-train. I later asked myself, "when the hell did I become such a girl?" and more importantly, why did I become so obsess with my appearance? The answer: Control.

In a city that almost never sleeps, nevermind the smelly homeless guy dozing in the corner, one must have routine and stability to counteract with plans that always change, trains that are supposed to run express but are running local instead, and other such occurrences that interfere with our lives at a moments notice. At work, I'm beginning to notice within myself when I open the store; I open the store the exact same way and take my coffee (at the same time of day) the exact same way with two packets of sweet and low, and extra creamer, followed by a nut donut from Donut Planet. My morning routine is always the same, during the work week, and never can go off track or my world will come crashing down. Some call this OCD, I call it maintaining my sanity.

When I'm not at work, life feels like it's without routine. I wake up later, I'm not rushing out the door but again I'm falling into yet another pattern. Sunday, I like to lay in bed for a half an hour, followed by checking my email/myspace/livejournal/craigslist/gothamist/gawker/ apiary and other such various blogs, and continue to eat three organic eggs (overhard) with lightly buttered grain toast. Take a shower, get dressed, grab a Sunday Times from the bodega at Dyckman/Nagle (across from the 1), buy some fruit and throw together yogurt, granola and whatever fruit I just bought while listening to Jonathan Schwartz on NPR. Read the Sunday Styles (Weddings and Celebrations) and the Sunday Magazine (Funny Pages and The Ethicist), and, again, check the aforementioned websites. Maybe clean the apartment and maybe go for a walk. Sometimes the order changes, oftentimes it does not.

Monday, I clean house and work on things I've been putting off (as I have no real deadline, except for this column) and look through NYC Craigslist writing gigs unsuccessfully, followed by a nap and youtubing (as I don't have a tv). Monday is the lazy day, for the most part, and for the last two years, it somehow has always been that day because I've always had Mondays off for some reason, due to various jobs. It's oddly enough the same day off for other creative vocations: museums and theatres, off the top of my head. Monday being the lazy day, the "day off," has even become apart of my routine. It's like I'm getting old and set in my ways, and I'm only 22!

When your environment is constantly changing around you, the need for stability is a must. Customers who get the same drink, people who sit in the same seat on the train, and reading the Post sports pages first thing in the morning; this is what gets us through each day to deal with the insanity of twenty-first century life. We cope, we prioritize, problem solve and yes, even having matching socks, to match our bras and headbands to go with it. Although I hate to admit it, a routine is necessary to survive. So why did I become so obsessed with my appearance? Well, yes, control, routine and stability but also to not get swallowed up by the masses of couture and style with my messiness and dirty uggs.