A Creature Of Habit

I like the French word for 'habit’: habitude. Ah-bee-tood. It’s not as harsh as the English word ‘habit.’ That short vowel ‘a’ is rasping. Severe. “You’ve got a bad habit of looking at me the wrong way, mister.” I picture Jean Harlow. A smart-ass platinum blonde. That’s not the kind of habit I’d ever want to get mixed up in. I want habitude. French ‘habitude’ sounds comfortable, like a venerable armchair in an opulent study. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It just means that you’ve grown comfortable with a certain routine, a manner of dress, a way of doing things. You’re dignified. You have preferences. Inclinations. You’re a man of the world. A femme fatale. A deadly coquette. An enchantress. You enjoy European squares with baroque fountains and elegant statuary. “I have the habit of impulse, monsieur, and cannot always restrain myself.” J'ai l'habitude de l'impulsion, monsieur, et je ne puis toujours me retenir. And then whip out your rapier and execute a flawless thrust at an imaginary opponent. You’re not in the habit of duels, but it’s sexy to appear capable of anything. Breaking out of habits is even sexier. But only if you fall back into your habit once you escape. That makes you appear vulnerable, and is a boost to your overall panache, which is yielding and genial. Habits are things you break. Habitude is where you live. Habits are rabbits. Habitude is gratitude. Latitude. Largesse. You can go a long way with habitude. It’s like sailing a yacht, while canoeing on a pond. Habit is the dull routine that one day turns into a crisis. You need to be rid of it. Ditch it for some habitude.

I have a long list of habits. Some of which I’ve broken. Gladly broken. Some I miss. Most I don’t. I don’t miss smoking. The first six months were torture. I was constantly angry. I had to exit a bus once because it was winter and the driver hadn’t turned the heat on. Deep down I knew how grotesquely patrician it would be to yell at the guy. Privileged, I think, is the proper term for that these days. Privileged because I was Hamlet. My privilege extended back to the 14^th century. I lived in a castle with a treacherous uncle and a lascivious mother. I moped around pushing boundaries. I was brutal to poor Ophelia. So I got off. I dinged the bell and got off the bus. I even gave a nod to the driver. My Hamlet nod. The nod of an aggrieved prince in a time before YouTube. And walked the rest of the way. Resumed a measure of calm. I never thought I could ever feel so good about ditching a bad drug. Not so with booze. Alcohol I miss. That was a tough one as well. Brandy, Guiness, cognac, tequila, Glenfiddich, martinis, I loved them all. Loved the movie Barfly. Mickey Rourke as Charles Bukowski. I felt right at home. That was a difficult divorce. Still miss it. Gives me nostalgia. Imaginings I won’t go into. Maybe another time. I’m still waiting for that long slow distance between me and the fantasies I dare never entertain.

I’ve cultivated some good habits over time. Running is a big one. It’s beyond habit. It’s an addiction. If I don’t run, I don’t feel right. I feel off. Dull. Uninspired. My mitochondria have gotten use to the daily renewal, either through running or doing a dumbbell routine. When it comes to dumbbells, I’m a natural. I feel comfortable around anything I don’t have to assemble or learn how to use while being surveilled by agents I only dimly comprehend. Running is an antidote to the dopamine trickle of social media. I remember privacy, it wasn’t just a location or a circumstance, it was having an interior nobody but you were allowed to enter. Are tattoos a way to restore identity? I’m stunned whenever I see somebody running while gazing at their phone. Maybe they’re developing a new run and looking at a map. Running is a meditation. It’s good for people who get bored with the shenanigans of their monkey mind. I like gorilla mind. Gorilla mind is thumping your chest in the wilderness. Breaking your chains on a Broadway stage as the paparazzi drive you insane with their flashbulbs. You end your run swatting at airplanes. That’s a terrible analogy. Running is fun. It isn’t tragic. It can be, I suppose. But mostly it’s exhilarating. You feel a surge of good health. That said, who wouldn’t feel eased of life’s absurdities by swatting at Curtis Helldivers while atop the Empire State Building?