I think the hardest thing about moving, no matter how far away you go, is trying to find a routine.
At home it was simple… My weekdays consisted of work, gym, and hanging out. On the weekends it was gym, napping and hanging out. I had a time to get up. A time to go to sleep. Everything had a time.
But here… I have no schedule. Weekdays and weekends are the same. I tell the days by train ticket prices. I don’t have a time to wake up. I don’t have a time to go to sleep. In fact, the only time I have scheduled is 5-7.30 Monday evenings. I trek to London for a class. The rest of my time is free to use at my discretion.
I hate free time.
I’m a creature of habit. One with an affinity for schedules. And deadlines. And time frames. Specific times for specific things.
I like structure.
***
My gym is strange. A locker room does not exist. It is more of a locker corridor. When I arrive, I hand over my student card in return for a locker key. I head to the bathroom so I can change out of my boots. I never wear my running shoes on my walk here for fear they will get wet. I don’t have a spare pair.
I don’t know how to describe the layout. The locker corridor, bathrooms and reception are in a separate location from the cardio and weight rooms. I walk outside and follow the sidewalk that leads to the ‘fitness suite’. It’s not far, only several yards, but it feels a lot farther in the cold.
Heat lamps hang next to the windows of the fitness suite. I stare at the glowing bulbs and wonder what bugs find so attractive. The lack of circulation is suffocating. After I work out under the stifling glow, my face is red and my clothes are soaked in sweat. I stand out in the cold, arms outstretched, willing myself to go back inside. To finish my workout. Sometimes I can’t. Some days I arrive and the heat lamps are off. Those days are even worse. My muscles feel stiff and frozen the entire time. I shiver and shiver and shiver.
Undercover Boss is on around 9.45. So many of the employees are immigrants, thankful for the opportunity to have a job. Any job. Even if that job is literally scrubbing porta potties. It gives them structure. Purpose. A new way of life.
Today, I watched the CEO of 7-11 go undercover. All I wanted was a Slurpee.
***
Writing is a solitary activity. As is all PhD work. Some days, the only conversation I have is with the baristas at Costa. Some days it doesn’t bother me at all. I like being alone. Other days I think it’s sad. And slightly pathetic.
Friday I went out with a friend. We spent the evening chatting and gossiping and complaining about stuff. We talked about how the older you get the harder it is to meet new people. We no longer have the luxury of forced, convenient social situations. Instead, we have to make a concerted effort to find friends.
It would be easier to become a hermit.
The effort of making friends when you’re older is just that – an effort. I’m used to the comfort of the friends I already have. I spend tonight at a party, watching everyone eat pancakes and nutella and explaining several times why I can’t eat pancakes and nutella. It’s fun. I laugh a lot. But by the end, when the excitement starts to fade and the pauses in conversation grow longer and longer, I’m exhausted. I have nothing else to offer. And even though I’m surrounded by people and even though I’m having a good time, I’m still kind of lonely.
Friday was comfortable. This is not.
But then I remind myself that I have only been here a month. The effortless nights spent with my already friends didn’t come easy either. They started as seeds. Were planted. Cultivated. Blossomed out of shared moments and shared routines. Some took minutes. Others took years. But that’s just it… They all took time.
The key, I think, to finding my routine and my new people is to try different things until something that fits. But that’s part of the excitement of moving. Everything is different. Everything will just take time. And that is something of which I have plenty.
I have no schedule.
My time is my own.
