There are about a million things I want to do every day. Bah! I just noticed that I haven't folded my laundry. You see, there are little things hiding everywhere. Things that want to be done. They long to be done, so they don't feel lonely and unfulfilled anymore. And I want to help them, I really do. But until someone can “alter time, speed up the harvest or teleport me off this rock” all I've got to work with is the same 24 hours as everyone else.
Some days I try to pack in as much as possible. Okay, most days. And I try to make the most of my time. I make unrealistic goals about pretty much everything. Sometimes I even accomplish them, which is nice.
But seriously, between writing, work (Ugh, don't even get me started. Like my job, don't like the recent chaos), Kung Fu class, going to the gym, eating, sleeping and a smattering of other “things” I feel a little maxed out.
Yes, it's my fault. And no, it's not likely that I will slow down anytime soon.
That's why I say I must hate myself.
I'll just give a few examples from today. I'm trying to edit the final red lines to my novel so I can finally get it out. Yay! The thing is, I'm fixing the “was” obsession that I apparently had/have, and it's taking me forever to get through it. Of course the final product will be worth it, but until I get there I feel like I'm trying to grind my way through a rock with a straw. Not even a spoon! (because it'll hurt more) I wanted it finished by the end of the week. Hah, yeah right.
Second, I went to a spinning class this afternoon with a good friend of mine. My legs finally recovered from Kung Fu class last week, and I think I did pretty well. Felt the burn and all that. The seat is where I had the worst, uh, feeling. Bike seat—haven't been on one in years. You figure it out, and don't ask me why I'm flinching every time I sit down for the next two days.
So I must hate myself. Isn't there medication for this problem?