Quotes About Routine

A grown person in Tahiti has an eating hour allotted to him twice a day, at 10 A.M. and 5 P.M.

All he ever knew of her was who he saw every day. All I am is who I am every day. All anyone is to anyone is a series of days.

Sometimes at night I worry about TAMMY. I worry that she might get tired of it all. Tired of running at sixty-six terahertz, tired of all those processing cycles, every second of every hour of every day. I worry that one of these cycles she might just halt her own subroutine and commit software suicide. And then I would have to do an error report, and I don't know how I would even begin to explain that to Microsoft.

For the past several years, I have gone to sleep every night in this same little pocket, the most uneventful piece of time I could find. Same exact thing every night, night after night. Total silence. Absolutely nothing. That's why I chose it. I know for a fact nothing bad can happen to me in here.

Your relationship having turned into a pantomime, a series of gestures in a well-worn scene, played out again and again, any underlying feeling having long since been obviated by emotional muscle memory, learning how to make the right faces, strike the right poses, not out of apathy or lack of sincerity, rather a need to preserve what was left of his pride.

What was I thinking? Because, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure I would even know what I do with myself. Even if you could skip to the end of it all, what would I do the next day with my life that would be so different from all the days that came before? What miraculous change would I make, after getting out of this rut, what new kind of person would I choose to be that next day? And the next? And how about the day after, and all of the days after that?

Living like this means the year stops making sense, and the month and the week. The dates fall away from the days, like glass punched out of window frames, or ice cubes out of a tray into a sink, identical, dateless, nameless durational blobs, melting into an undifferentiated puddle. Is that a Saturday, a Friday, a Monday? Is that

The workweek was a structure, a grid, a matrix that held him in place, a path through time, the shortest distance between birth and death.

There are people whose watch stops at a certain hour and who remain permanently at that age.

Life was menial and lacked enchantment.

The alarm rings 4:45, again at 5, but I wake up 4:30 naturally. Shower, shave, orange juice, perk my own coffee, hear the news, and the CBS car arrives 5:30.

Unromantic as Monday morning.

Daily sitting is our bread and butter, the basic stuff of dharma. Without it we tend to be confused.

The formation of habits is education, and education is the formation of habits.

The mother who takes pains to endow her children with good habits secures for herself smooth and easy days; while she who lets their habits take care of themselves has a weary life of endless friction with the children.

He is very careful and loving, and hardly lets me stir without special direction. I have a schedule prescription for each hour in the day; he takes all care from me, and so I feel basely ungrateful not to value it more.

and Mr. Klugman went to the store every day and

I suppose it's like newlywed sex. The first few years, you get busy anytime, anywhere, baby. But after a few anniversaries, you'd rather stay up and watch Leno.

When you finally achieve a modus vivendi with your kitchen, you have been acculturated. You have learned a way of life.

Home life is important and housekeeping should be an enjoyable part of it .

that the way you experience life in your home is determined by how you do your housekeeping.

The phones were ringing off the hook, and the sweetness in Allan Vasey's voice was almost purely a matter of routine. Had to be nice to the customers, man. At all costs. You had to keep them happy. In fact, just this morning, he'd pinned a bogus memo up over the dispatch desk: it said BE POLITE, OR WE'LL KILL YOU. Signed, The Management. At least two of the people who came into the office weren't sure that it was a joke.

Smonday: the moment when Sunday stops feeling like a Sunday and the anxiety of Monday kicks in

You ever take a nap so good that you thought you missed the school bus. But it's Sunday… and you're 32.