I've been thinking a lot about routine lately. The two sides to it. It can be a good thing, like something I always wanted to have. Those friends that wake up at 7 every day and do spin until 8 and start work at 9, and have a glowing yoga complexion, because they're productive as usual. But it's also been a bad thing, getting stuck in a routine in a relationship, flaws that become habits, like caring for someone else before you tend to yourself. Choosing to do their chores, and not yours, because it's easier to live a life that's not so daunting as your own. I checked into a motel on the side of the road on the central coast. I brought my dog and when we first got here, she acted like maybe I took her a hundred miles up the 101 just to walk her to a rocky beach and drown her in the ocean. The first night she puked all over the floor. She wouldn't eat or drink water. And she ruined my first dinner by making dying sounds from the street that could be heard round the block of a one block town. The morning after I had rolled all the puke into one towel, and I watched the maid as she examined it, she spread it open, took it all in, and rolled it back up. She said nothing. Three days in, we've adapted. My dog now thinks we live in a sleepy beach town in Room 125. She sits on the stoop outside the motel door, guarding her new territory, proud as she walks with me in the morning to the coffee shop, serene as we get our smoked fish tacos in the afternoon and happy to greet all the new guests when they arrive. We've made a new routine so quickly. We needed to. The old is gone, rolled up in a towel, quietly thrown in the wash, like nothing happened, no one will ever know.