For “morning” please also read “when I get up”, which on work weeks is halfway through the afternoon, because I work (ostensibly, I usually start earlier and finish earlier) from 10pm until 6.15am.
Rituals and routines help shift a lot of work without making decisions, a handy factor when you’ve just woken up and your brain isn’t actually working yet, or if you have some kind of executive function problem; you can just run the automatic process and don’t have to decide on anything (I’m not saying that solves executive function problems but it can help ameliorate them). Also very useful if, like me, you spend 7 days out of every 14 at minimum running on an increasing sleep deficit.
Many people have morning rituals; reading the newspapers over coffee, using the same three swearwords over burnt toast and aggressive hair-straighteners, grabbing an ostensibly healthy smoothie while running to the station because their morning ritual involves being late, doing yoga with the sunrise because their morning ritual involves being smug…
The longer things are incorporated the more set they become. It’s why you’re encouraged to take medication at the same time every day (I mostly manage this, although apart from the citirizine hydrochloride they’re not really mandatory so much as “recommended”), or why people trying to improve their fitness levels squeeze in their morning run at the same point every day (past me, on my way home, while wearing more and more swanky workout gear).
So far I’ve got the hang of things like “eating breakfast” and “exercise” because of morning routines; boarding school taught me exciting things like “consistently showering” (which depression then completely undermined for years; nothing like “smelling of stale sweat” to increase your sense of no self-worth, compounding the shiteness of depression, weighing you down, and making it ever-more unlikely you’ll find the strength to fix even that), for a while I had the morning ritual of make-up, for a while I had the morning ritual of “removing yesterday’s make-up”, for a while I had the morning ritual of “a hangover every single day”, which was not what I would call Peak Achievement.
These days it goes like this:
Arise thy ass from bed.
Go at once to the kitchen and make tea. Acquire ye water.
Ingest with thy water the selection of pills demeaned necessary to prevent cholesterol from overpowering thy body and the country’s blatant absence of sunlight from turning thy bones to dust. [Summer variant: fling in some anti-histamines or spend all day scratching your visage and sneezing mightily]. Brush the enamel-coated protrusions of bone into thy mouth until they stop feeling like a goblin climbed into thy mouth in the night and wiped its unholy ass all over them.
Prepare thou thy breakfast and consume it. On a good day, Instagram the breakfast photo, because “putting pictures of what I eat on Instagram like a kind of Gallery of Shame” stops me eating so much carbonated assfart.
Enter into the bathroom and consume a cup of tea while sitting on the bog and browsing thy social media profiles on a tablet, which is going to be the single most 21st-century thing I do all day short of complaining at TfL on Twitter while on one of their buses about how the bus isn’t working. Which is in all reality just a very quick version of the Letter to the Times beloved of my stroppy ancestors [Sir, I waited three quarters of an hour for a bus which the LED display reliably informed me, the whole time, was 6 minutes away; when the bus arrived it promptly terminated. Is this some sort of psychological experiment and what does it say about me that I reacted to this by throwing my umbrella into the road and buying a Shitty Chicken Meal?]
At a time judged by the Sacred “I Ran Out Of Internet And Am Now Browsing Food Tumblrs”, ascertain that the calories within breakfast have been assimilated into the bloodstream and the Foul Human Carcass will be capable of completing its morning workout.
Bizarre routine of stretching and warm-ups which is cobbled together from logic, necessity, half-remembered yoga and even more hazily-remembered ballet warm-up.
Whichever of the four entries of specific work-out is earmarked for that day [this took a lot of fiddling, twiddling, and input from three separate fitness-authoritative friends, one of whom can deadlift approximately 300lb and has bright blue hair because she is the coolest being on the planet; it will probably continue to be fiddled with, but I would be kidding everyone if I didn’t explain that it took several near-shouting matches before anyone could convince me that three recovery days a week is preferable for muscle growth and improved strength and that talking me down from six continual days of weight-lifting out of every seven is not, as slightly mental-ly asserted, “a conspiracy to make me remain fat and useless forever”]
After the completion of thy whatevers, post FITSHAMING results on Facebook for maximum accountability [if I were more organised/had space on my tablet for more apps I’d do this on a fitness tracker].
Waste slightly more time on the internet until thou hast regained thy breath.
Slather thy face with cleandirt in an attempt to prevent it from turning into a major oil well. [It will do this anyway. I am on a shot of Sustanon 250 every just-under lunar month – about 26 to 27 days – and it is doing the predicted in Making My Skin Turn Into The Before Shot In A Clearasil Advert. I am assured it will get worse. I cannot wait.] Remove the dirt from thy skin. Remove the dirt from thy sink.
Enter the cleansing cubicle and use low-pressure boiling water to strip thy skin from thy flesh with the aid of whatever weird smelly goo was cheapest in Morrisons recently. Potentially try to remove some of the several months of accretion of glitter from thy over-bleached and wispy hair.
Exit the cleansing cubicle and remove water from Foul Human Carcass. Reapply The Shame Bracelet. Apply whichever scented unguent seems most likely to prevent thy armpits from smelling like grilled hobos by the end of today.
Industriously apply unwise quantities of glitter suspended in moisturiser. [Because I won’t moisturise otherwise, I put glitter in there. The next step is to bribe myself into using suncream via the same method. If you don’t have to coax yourself into responsible adulthood behaviours by treating your own brain like the truculent four-year-old it actually is, congratulations. If you do, check out my guide to tricking yourself into eating vegetables.]
Optional: Attempt to insert contact lenses with deleterious quantities of glitter gel on thy fingers, because thou art a fucking idiot and never remember to do this FIRST.
Hide the wretched flesh prison from the prying eyes of the world with the application of cloth.
NOW I AM READY TO SPEND ANOTHER THREE HOURS DICKING AROUND ON THE INTERNET.