I enjoy familiarity in all things, in habit, in diet, in exercise, in dress, but especially in timetable. I find endless comfort in that regularity, like a warm and well used shawl comfortingly wrapped about my shoulders. As far as is possible I rise at a similar time, eat at well-practiced intervals, walk a rehearsed route on most every occasion, prefer a particular chair, eat from a very specific plate with well used cutlery, drink from chosen vessel, and only refreshment to which I am wholly conditioned. To many this very pedanticism might seem bland, boring, repetitive, unremitting, but to any true seeker of perfection is the very staple of contentment.
I am reliably informed that concert pianists practice scales daily, that elite sporting folks are constantly seeking improvement in their chosen field. Certainly, my world seems from the exterior miniscule, mundane, yet I practice each second, every singular motion with intense attention, each breathe with expectant finesse, every stride in search of exactitude in poise and posture.
The exact and precise practice of life is in itself a noble goal and as close to impossibility as any other search for perfection.