It was 85° yesterday, and Andreas and I were walking four blocks from our house to dinner. I noticed he had his backpack on, and asked “What’s with the big ol’ backpack? Are we going somewhere after dinner?”

He looked at me and thought. “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t need anything in my bag at all. I guess it’s just habit.”

I had to laugh, because it’s true. Dre’s famous for pulling on thick socks and his work shoes when it’s broiling hot out and he’s wearing shorts, just because he’s used to that. His brain is like “Whaaaat? You mean, I own flip flops?!”

I mean, I’m a creature of habit too … so I almost get it. But not quite. I’m not so much a creature of habit that I lock the door while I’m pumping gas, which is another thing Dre does without thinking. (Exit car, lock door.)

When I mulled over my own habits, Dre stopped me and clarified. “You like routines,” he said. “But you’re not blindly habitual like me. You seem to actually almost enjoy every little detail of your set ways.”

While that’s not totally true (I can go autopilot as much as anyone else), I do get a sick pleasure out of my routines. I like gloating over the efficiencies as I run through my patterns, noticing the minutes I’ve shaved off of my tea making routine (so effective!), and marveling at my own cleverness when I perfectly anticipate a need — say, having chapstick at exactly the right dry-lip moment (so smart!).

It may all come down to self-absorption. While Dre’s brain is thinking about history and politics and music as he pulls on his huge, unneeded backpack, I’m ticking through my lists thinking, “Are my lips dry? Are my feet hot? Does my back hurt? In a few hours, might I have a headache and want some Ibuprofin?”