I'm staring at my list. I have numbered the things I absolutely have to do for work, sometimes using decimal points when I realize I should probably not make such lists in ink. I've been doing this now for several months -- numbering the lists gives me a touchstone when I get overwhelmed with all the things that need to be done -- I can stare at the list and just focus on the next numbered task, put one virtual foot in front of the other, and it pulls me through.
But I am really tired of rushing. I have been rushing from commitment to commitment for several weeks now. Yesterday I flung myself through my day at work to get everything done in time to take the little angel to ballet. From ballet, we had to go to PTA Family Fun Night. When we got home, I needed to clean the house because I have a friend coming over tonight. (Since both Beloved and I were out of town last weekend, the spiders and dust mites had staged a coup and were threatening to storm the pantry.) By the time Beloved and I sat down to eat, it was 9:30 p.m. and we were both exhausted and covered in Lysol wipes and Swiffer juice.
Beloved had to leave early this morning for a doctor's appointment. I would've completely slept in -- somehow I didn't set my alarm right -- except the little angel climbed into bed just about the time we usually get up for the day and shoved her cold feet between my knees. We lay there talking, Petunia purring at the other end of the bed, and I told myself that once I finish work today, I'm committing to lollygagging the rest of the weekend. No plans with anyone else that might make me have to rush. A loose assortment of fun things the little angel and I can do while Beloved goes to cheer on Iowa from the 50-yard line.
But mostly, I just want to hang out and watch the post-equinox light change. In no hurry at all.
