When time is less, and life is more…
I am not one to lament, sing torch songs, or cry in my beer when I am standing in the middle of Grand Central Station of my own manic life. I am not that kind of girl. I hunker down—under the goose down duvet—and live off quintessential supplies required to weather the dark, dramatic times. To survive I will have at least one romantic novel. A story of a buxom redhead and a strapping lad who frequently rips the stays from her bustier before throwing her down on the sweet smelling grass in the Highlands. In between trysts, the lad will battle the nasty British Officer who also wants the sultry maiden.
Also included in my hide-away-from-the-world-kit, is a new journal and a package of multi-colored Sharpies for jotting down my feelings in the appropriate color. There is at least one box each of Chamomile and mint teas, for sipping and soothing my weary soul during the mornings and late afternoons, while evenings is reserved for something stronger and hails from the vines in Napa Valley. I am not an emotional eater so chocolate is not a requirement, but there will be an assortment of exotic cheeses that promise to add depth and dimension to my thighs.
In short, the first sign of trouble in River City, I scurry to town, gather my supplies, and run like a fox being chased by a pack of red cheeked, white haired, slightly manic men atop expensive horses, back home to slip my skin and hide under the plush feathers of the goose until whatever is passing overhead is gone. The key to surviving is to stay out of the line of fire. While I don’t know all the answers or how to win at the game of life, I am solider in the trenches and know a thing or two about how to survive a battle, even if it’s only fighting the speed at which the hands of time swirl around the dial. Time—or the lack of it—happens to be my latest trial, there is more on the Brenda list of DO NOW OR WITHER, than there is time in my days and nights to complete. There is time available between the magical hours of 2 and 3 AM. However, I am hording this hour for nocturnal festivities like slumber, dreaming, hibernation, soul surfacing, and total body power down.
(Annotation: Sleep is said to be overrated, but I am rather pleasant, almost charming, some even tell me I am witty and smell good when I’ve savored the hours between midnight and sunrise for sleep. It’s a rumor but lets not spread it, we wouldn’t want others to know I have a good side.)
Lately, as in last two months, I’ve been a victim of hit and run time bandits. Like a woman dressed to the nines in designer labels carrying a Gucci bag and matching wallet with unlimited credit on all of her platinum cards (me with my list of to-dos), foolishly walking through the center of Down and Out Central (me breezing through life oblivious to the warning signs). The woman minding her own business is knocked down only to see her assailants running away with her precious possessions. After, she stands on the street corner dressed only in yesterday’s newsprint and disbelief (me sitting atop my bed in my threadbare awareness).
Where is the time I so carefully allocated to all my tasks? Why is Chapter 16—the final chapter of my novel—not edited? Why isn’t a blog post-posted? Why isn’t the short story I started, finished? Why is it when I have grand plans I can’t catch a break?
Of course, when I am firing on all four pistons I keep a steady eye on the horizon watching for signs of those sneaky little time snatchers and life upseters, but my head has been in the clouds and preoccupied with matters of the heart, thus the signs flitted by unnoticed. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the airport yesterday morning–waiting to catch my flight home after an exhausting business trip—did I see the fading sparkle of a time bandit’s afterglow did I realize I was behind on my life and a victim of a hit and run.
So here I am signing my torch song and looking for love in the all the wrong places. I didn’t resort to sobbing in my beer. Rather I inhaled a deep, long luxurious breath, held it to the count of ten, released it at the same pace, and resorted and de-cluttered my list. I counted my tender mercies, rejoiced over an email from an Editor at The Sun Magazine, wrote a post, and moved forward with Chapter 16. As for those pesky time bandits,well, I have opted for a new fashion accessory-a slingshot.
How do you cope when you dance as fast as you can and your life twirls on by?
Where I go when I am looking for live in all the wrong places…