But I am. In my mind I have these magnificent visions of myself exercising at 5 a.m., biking through my city’s many parks on the weekends with my kid on one of those fancy enclosed trailers, reading on my screened porch by lamplight with a glass of wine after the baby is asleep on weekend nights. And writing. I write and I write–in my mind. Sounds like I am suffering from delusions of grandeur if you ask me.
In Real Life, my “new” bike has been ridden twice since I received it for Christmas in 2005, and I have stashed my ever-deflating exercise ball out on the screened porch where I have only visited recently to remove the oil lamps so I could hang them around my front door entryway to entice trick-or-treaters. This decorating frenzy took place minutes after I carved the pumpkin for the front step, which was about an hour before dark on Halloween night. In the mornings I press snooze on the alarm until I realize I have exactly 50 minutes before I have to leave the house. Evenings find me unprepared to make dinner–I should have thawed this, or I’m out of that–so I often eat cereal. Unless of course I am out of milk. I wait to do laundry until the remaining underwear in the drawer is too big, too small, or dangerously low on elastic. There are several nice dress shirts hanging in my closet that go unworn because they are too wrinkled, and I never take the time to iron them. I believe in living in the moment, but I think that’s probably something different. Me–I’m living in the last minute.
I will give myself this: I had planned to shoot out a few sentences here, something along the lines of “wah, wah, this is hard, I don’t have time,” but look, I’m on paragraph three now. No, this is not my best work, but that little creative voice inside me does manage to make herself heard from time to time, and lately she is saying, “God, woman, put on your watch. Get out your calendar. Get hold of yourself. Time’s a wastin’.”
How do you keep it all together without pissing it away?