Why I Try to Skip the Smallest Parts of My Morning Routine: A Journey of Rebellion and Reflection

What part of your routine do you always try to skip if you can?

What Part of My Routine Do I Always Try to Skip If I Can?

I wake up. I don’t always want to, but I do. The light filters through the blinds, and it’s like a slow-motion beginning to a film. There’s a distant hum—traffic, maybe, or the buzz of someone else’s life starting—one of those things we pretend we don’t hear because we don’t have the luxury of time for it. The routine looms, even before I’ve stepped foot on the floor. It starts like a game where the rules were set before I even realized I had entered.

But what part do I try to skip? Oh, the easy answer would be the first cup of coffee, the journaling, the reading. But no. That’s what I’m supposed to skip, isn’t it? What the world expects me to dismiss when the clock insists I move. But then, I think about it. What’s the truth, really? It’s not the tasks that need to be skipped. It’s the act of getting ready. The preparation. The brushing of teeth, the tying of shoes. The inevitable, monotonous moment of getting into the groove of being productive. That space between waking and fully entering the day where I just want to resist. I want to rebel against the need to be polished and put together before I even say a word to anyone.

I’ll start with the teeth. Yes, teeth. The brushing. It’s not that I don’t care about dental hygiene—of course, I do. I’ve read all the pamphlets, listened to all the “dentist dramas” on TV, and even looked into the statistics about gum disease. But here’s the thing: It’s a choice. It’s a ritual. And for some unfathomable reason, I want to skip it. The sensation of toothpaste on my gums, the coldness of the water splashing my face, the scrape of the bristles on the enamel… All these textures invite discomfort rather than a sense of renewal. And in that small rebellion, there’s a whisper of freedom. Can’t I just skip this? Would the world really end if I did?

The shoes—don’t get me started on the shoes. Shoes are a declaration of conformity. They say: I am ready to be seen. They suggest that my feet must be contained in something that signals I’m a part of the system, that I too must “walk the walk.” But what if I could skip this? What if I could just exist without the weight of shoes, feeling the floor under my feet, the earth in its rawest form? I wonder if I could leave the house in bare feet. Would anyone notice? Would anyone care? The question starts to chew at the edges of my thoughts, gnawing at my preconceptions. It’s not about avoiding shoes—no, it’s the thought that I can avoid them if I want. What part of routine is truly mine, and how many aspects of it are dictated by an invisible hand?

Then there’s the “getting dressed” portion of the morning, that performative act of putting on clothes that match, of choosing a color palette that says, “Yes, I’m here and I belong.” But why? Why must the self be reflected in fabric? Can’t I skip that too? Just once? Could I exist without the layers that the world tells me to wear, without dressing up my identity in the fabric of expectation?

And yet, I do it. I do it all. The brushing, the shoes, the clothes, the subtle performance that reminds me who I am—or rather, who the world needs me to be. Maybe it’s the act of ‘getting ready’ itself that I’m avoiding. It’s the reminder that life is a constant preparation, a never-ending series of transitions from one task to the next. It’s the realization that I am always becoming, but never quite arriving.

But here’s the twist—the part of the routine I think I’m so desperate to avoid, it’s really the part I crave. I crave the simple, unadulterated act of existing without the weight of expectation. Maybe skipping all of it would be the ultimate rebellion, the ultimate freedom—staring into the face of the routine and saying, “No, I won’t do it today.” But that’s not how life works. We can only skip so much before we become lost in the void of what comes next. Even in my desire to rebel against the mundane parts of my routine, I’m still part of it. Perhaps I need the brush, the shoes, the clothes. Perhaps they’re anchors, keeping me tethered to a version of myself that knows how to move in the world. Perhaps it’s not the act itself that I hate, but the thought that it’s something I have to do.

I’m not sure. The dilemma remains. And maybe that’s the crux of the whole thing. The conflict between the urge to break free and the pull of the familiar, the comfort of predictability. The struggle between who I am and who I think I should be. Isn’t that what we’re all doing? Skipping some parts of the routine and clinging desperately to others, all the while navigating the currents that pull us through the day?

So, what do I skip, then? I skip the moment of transition between waking and truly existing. I try to avoid the gears of the machine turning too quickly, the momentum of routine pressing me forward without consent. And I fail, but that’s the point, isn’t it? To acknowledge the desire, to feel the friction, to recognize the need to break free—only to realize that breaking free might not be what I really want. Maybe the routine is part of the game. Maybe the real question is not what part I skip, but why I feel the need to skip at all.

Isn’t that where the story begins? The part of the routine that haunts you, that tempts you to find escape in the smallest actions, only to realize that by skipping, you’re still playing by the same rules? Still bound by the same pattern of repetition and desire?

But tomorrow, tomorrow, I’ll wake up again, and I’ll try to skip it once more. I’ll try to avoid the ritual of brushing, of lacing shoes, of dressing for the day. And tomorrow, perhaps I’ll succeed. Or perhaps, I’ll just find another part of the routine to want to avoid. But that, in itself, is a routine too. And isn’t that the truth we all carry around in our pockets—our constant desire to escape, only to discover there’s nowhere to go but deeper into the cycle?

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