My productivity plummets when time has a family reunion. When he brings in reinforcements, I feel the ripple of a time warp.
When my personal TO DO list must be composed with Sharpie on an infinity of toilet paper and trails behind me, stuck to my shoe, annoying me wherever I go, I chop away at it relentlessly, day and night, just to be rid of it.
But when t i m e expands, like it did this week with three snow days and a power outage, I had time on my hands and in my lap and wrapped around my shoulders. I knocked a bunch of major items off my list, but slowly, and now I look at the meager rest of my list and smirk. You can’t hurt me. I’ve got this.
And I ignore it.
All day yesterday, I acted like a normal person on a weekend, instead of my normal mode of human-with-more-than-one-job-on-a-treadmill-that-will-swallow-me-whole-if-I-don’t-keep-moving. I went out to lunch with Mike. I read under a blanket on the couch. I watched multiple uninterrupted hours of the Olympics, yelling at the skeleton dude who fell off his perch and skating alongside the blondie ponytail and her toothless dad. I ate three meals, all different, all with a beverage, all with a napkin, all with time nodding approval at my side.
I’m just a teeny bit afraid of time’s evil cousin, Monday, who will likely pummel me senseless very soon. But in the hug of the cushion of time called Sunday, I remain bubble-wrapped and smug.