Happens sometimes.
We tell ourselves that when the kids are out of the house, we'll have more time.
This is horseshit.
I told myself that when I had the last kid graduate that I would have more time for the writing. Also horse feces.
I've moved since then. Two hour commute daily. I have a beautiful grandson. One child in Florida. I'm planning a wedding. I work forty hours a week. Throw in some health issues and YAHTZEE!
I was talking to my therapist the other day. (Yes. I have a therapist. I believe EVERYONE should have a therapist. I need someone who will actually listen to me and then give me another perspective. It is marvelous.)
Anyway...I was going on about stress. My body hurting. Wanting to come home and exercise and write.
So she asked about my schedule.
I get up at 6. Out the door at 645. At work around 745. Work 8-5. Leave work. Get to the city around 6-630. Pencil in tanning. (It's my only vice.) Now it's almost 7. Need to eat dinner. In bed by 8.
And she says, God bless her, "sounds like you don't have enough time in the evenings."
whoa
WHOA
Did she say that I don't have enough time in the evenings??? That I don't have to mentally beat myself up for dragging my ass home and hoping there's something in the fridge I can eat cold or nuke within a couple of minutes???
holy shit
Well, then.
And do you have any idea how nice it was to hear that I can quit being so damn tough on myself because I'm NOT fitting everything I want to in a day?
That maybe, perhaps, I can focus more on the weekends when I DO have time?
*blinks*
That I don't have to be Superwoman and fit things into my day that will actually take a toll on me instead of enrich the day?
Who the fuck knew?
I've been hardwired to do as much as I can in one day as humanly, or inhumanly, possible. Sacrifice my health. My sleep. My own guilty pleasures. Hell, I don't know if I even have guilty pleasures, anymore. And since I'm having to type that...it's doubtful.
But I'm not growing any younger. In fact, I seem to be aging.
Would you believe that I found a wayward eyebrow sticking STRAIGHT OUT from the rest of my eyebrows? Just sticking out like it was about to shish kebab something. I was utterly aghast.
What the hell is that all about? Before you know it I'll need to trim nose hairs and the like.
*shuddering*
Before I get lost in all the ways I'm sure my body will betray me...
Life is not what you think it's going to be.
Plans are made and ruthlessly destroyed. Timing is a nice thought but hardly ever works out. Just when you think you've got a hold of it, you don't.
Trust me.
You don't.
So. I've learned to adapt more. I try to use what little time I have in the evenings to unwind. Maybe catch up on the news. Play a game on my Kindle to unwind. But I'm turning the corner on the massive expectations I placed on my time-deprived self.
I will use what I have when I have it.
If that means jotting down notes on a story but not touching it until the weekend. So be it.
Because this progress, as slow as I might find it, is at least PROGRESS.
So I'm going to wrap it up here. Open up a couple of stories. Write the stories that pour out of my soul.
And I'm going to be happy with it. Because what joy can be found when stress squeezes the life from it?
I deserve that joy.
And so do you.
*******
We tell ourselves that when the kids are out of the house, we'll have more time.
This is horseshit.
I told myself that when I had the last kid graduate that I would have more time for the writing. Also horse feces.
I've moved since then. Two hour commute daily. I have a beautiful grandson. One child in Florida. I'm planning a wedding. I work forty hours a week. Throw in some health issues and YAHTZEE!
I was talking to my therapist the other day. (Yes. I have a therapist. I believe EVERYONE should have a therapist. I need someone who will actually listen to me and then give me another perspective. It is marvelous.)
Anyway...I was going on about stress. My body hurting. Wanting to come home and exercise and write.
So she asked about my schedule.
I get up at 6. Out the door at 645. At work around 745. Work 8-5. Leave work. Get to the city around 6-630. Pencil in tanning. (It's my only vice.) Now it's almost 7. Need to eat dinner. In bed by 8.
And she says, God bless her, "sounds like you don't have enough time in the evenings."
whoa
WHOA
Did she say that I don't have enough time in the evenings??? That I don't have to mentally beat myself up for dragging my ass home and hoping there's something in the fridge I can eat cold or nuke within a couple of minutes???
holy shit
Well, then.
And do you have any idea how nice it was to hear that I can quit being so damn tough on myself because I'm NOT fitting everything I want to in a day?
That maybe, perhaps, I can focus more on the weekends when I DO have time?
*blinks*
That I don't have to be Superwoman and fit things into my day that will actually take a toll on me instead of enrich the day?
Who the fuck knew?
I've been hardwired to do as much as I can in one day as humanly, or inhumanly, possible. Sacrifice my health. My sleep. My own guilty pleasures. Hell, I don't know if I even have guilty pleasures, anymore. And since I'm having to type that...it's doubtful.
But I'm not growing any younger. In fact, I seem to be aging.
Would you believe that I found a wayward eyebrow sticking STRAIGHT OUT from the rest of my eyebrows? Just sticking out like it was about to shish kebab something. I was utterly aghast.
What the hell is that all about? Before you know it I'll need to trim nose hairs and the like.
*shuddering*
Before I get lost in all the ways I'm sure my body will betray me...
Life is not what you think it's going to be.
Plans are made and ruthlessly destroyed. Timing is a nice thought but hardly ever works out. Just when you think you've got a hold of it, you don't.
Trust me.
You don't.
So. I've learned to adapt more. I try to use what little time I have in the evenings to unwind. Maybe catch up on the news. Play a game on my Kindle to unwind. But I'm turning the corner on the massive expectations I placed on my time-deprived self.
I will use what I have when I have it.
If that means jotting down notes on a story but not touching it until the weekend. So be it.
Because this progress, as slow as I might find it, is at least PROGRESS.
So I'm going to wrap it up here. Open up a couple of stories. Write the stories that pour out of my soul.
And I'm going to be happy with it. Because what joy can be found when stress squeezes the life from it?
I deserve that joy.
And so do you.
*******
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