TIME. Where the heck does it go?

It feels as though time got away from me this week. I always knew that doing my ‘proper’ job, as well as finding the time to write and keep fit, was going to be tricky. Typically, I decided to introduce the second and third activities into my life at the same time, which was a bit ambitious for a serial procrastinator like me. Oh yes. In spite of running my own business for the past four years, and fooling everyone into thinking I’m an amazingly organised, proactive career woman, I never do today what I can put off until tomorrow. Sometimes I put off tasks for so long that they drop off the to-do list altogether, the moment passed, the opportunity gone. I try very hard not to be like this, especially in the light of seeing chances pass my parents by, until they were too old to take them. But essentially I’m a lazy person and the least important thing gets put off until another day. Or sometimes the very important thing gets put off until I get everything else done, so I can ‘concentrate on it properly’. Now we all know that ‘everything else’ NEVER gets done, so this doesn’t work. I know that I should do the scary important thing first, so it doesn’t build up inside my head and hang over me. Who actually does this? Nobody I’ve met. If you do, I’d love to hear how you do it.
So this week the keeping fit was the thing that didn’t happen. My (feeble) excuse is that I was determined to finish or do further work to a few pieces of writing this week, which I achieved – hurrah! But by the time I got in from the day job and then did some writing, it was too late to do anything else, mainly because I would get engrossed in writing and then realise it was bedtime. You should have done some exercise as soon as you got in, you say. Well yes, but then by the time I did that, then there might not have been time to write. Hmmm.
And what about all the other stuff? Eating, for instance? I actually forgot to have lunch one day this week. Now that is unheard of, for me. I always have time for food. Plus, it’s not good for your health to skip meals. Then there’s housework, although fortunately I have a cleaner, I mean husband, for that. Thanks honey! I’m not obsessive about cleanliness – you can’t be, with three outdoor cats – but the mere fact that two of those cats are longhaired means that if a certain amount of vacuuming is not done, tumbleweeds of cat hair start rolling across the wooden floors like a scene from an old Western. Then there’s buying food and other supplies, chatting to friends, spending quality time with my cleaner, I mean husband…the list goes on. If anything unexpected comes up, like a delayed appointment, I end up chasing my tail for the rest of the day.
So I’ve decided I want a TARDIS. For anyone who doesn’t know what this is, 1) I don’t believe you, and 2) It’s Doctor Who’s time machine. I NEED one of those. I wouldn’t get all angst-ridden about misusing it either, like the Doctor. I would quite happily go back on my own timeline over and over, fitting everything in, and correcting things that went wrong…wait a minute. Actually, I see what the Doctor’s on about there. If I could do that, I wouldn’t learn from any of my mistakes. Some things are meant to go wrong for a reason, I fully believe that. I genuinely don’t regret anything from my past, because whatever happened has always taught me something. Also, wouldn’t the temptation be just to do nothing, ever, because you would know you could eventually jump in the time machine and go back and get it done? Hmmm…ok, maybe a TARDIS wouldn’t solve anything. Maybe I just need to get off my a**e. Work smarter, not harder! (I can’t believe I just said that. I hate management-speak).
Also, if I didn’t procrastinate, make mistakes, be me and live my life, I would have nothing to write about. Now that is a scary idea.
Incidentally, ‘time’ appears sixteen times in this blog post in total. I think. I didn’t have much time left to count accurately.

Clock, Musee d'Orsay, Paris, pic courtesy of long-suffering hubby

Clock, Musee d’Orsay, Paris, pic courtesy of long-suffering hubby

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