Feeling seen isn't always a positive thing. "Comfort creep: do YOU have it?" a lifestyle magazine asked, accusingly. I was certain that I did, even before knowing what it was. And that this was not good.
"Same holidays, same TV shows, same restaurants … If your life lacks excitement, it's time for an anti-comfort crusade!" OK, guilty as charged, but hang on a second. When did the comfort zone become a horrific dystopia from which you must escape at all costs? Comfort? Ugh, the worst! Run, screaming, as fast as you can.
What about those of us who have comfort creep and don't want to crusade against it, thanks? In a world that already feels busy enough, what's wrong with battening down the hatches and refusing to budge from your comfort zone? After years of being ashamed, carrying it as a guilty secret, while trying to avoid the fuddy-duddy-sounding (but accurate) phrase "I know what I like", I'm ready to admit I'm a routine queen.
A routine only counts as a rut if you never tested the alternatives. Mine is breakfast: two eggs, same pan, same bread, every morning for about a decade. That isn't laziness, it's a verdict. I sat through the porridge years, the smoothie years and the sad pastry-at-my-desk years before I got here, and the eggs won on merit. If you're going to eat the same thing every day for 10 years, it had better be a good one.
It's no coincidence that comfort creep is a mostly middle-aged occurrence and so can be billed as a miserable, joyless rut in which you're stuck; proof you've given up, surrendered to the blah. It could, alternatively, be viewed as reaching a point where you have sampled much of what life has to offer and curated the choices down to a bespoke selection that suits you perfectly. Welcome to your good-breakfast days.
When I catch up with my closest friend, we invariably go to the same restaurant. That's our place. After trying a few, we found one that was great. Even better (or worse, depending on your point of view), after sampling various menu options, we discovered something particularly delicious, so that's what we both have. It's not that we're too set in our ways to take risks – it's that we've already taken them. They were fine, but not as nice as the sea bass.
So now we're regulars with a regular. The staff recognise us and vice versa; we're at the exhilarating stage of being able to say – albeit slightly self-consciously – "the usual, please" when they come to take our order. It's not quite "where everybody knows your name" territory, but it's not far off. A reassuring, convivial little corner of the planet where we're sure what's what and that we will enjoy all of it. On a practical level, it also means we're spared the boring bits of meeting up – deciding where to go and what to have when we get there. Tedious logistics are moot for ever more; let's get on with the good stuff.
Similarly, there are a few TV shows I restart whenever I'm overwhelmed by events in real life. Comfort-watching, it's called – and there it is, the C-word again, soothing but billed sneeringly as a failing. I also have a favourite knife – my comfort knife, I suppose. If I'm chopping anything, that's the knife I'm using, guaranteed. Maybe this sounds desperately sad to the kind of thrill-seeker who would grab randomly at the cutlery drawer, but why would I settle for the rest when I could have the best? I know what I like and what isn't going to cut it.
It seems as though one person's dull is another's discerning – it just depends where you're standing. Plenty in an ordinary week is uncertain enough already – I'm not sure about you, but I'll take all the cosy, familiar comfort I can get.