Thursday, September 20, 2007
Tick tock, you damn dirty clock.
Like a lot of you, I'm sure, I keep several notebooks around to write myself notes, make lists, write random thoughts, draw pictures of what I think I'd look like as an alien from the planet Funkytron...
you know, the usual.
I wrote something down the other day that has bothered me ever since I put my ultra fine point sharpie to paper.
"She/I woke with an urgent sense that time was running out."
I can't even remember what I was thinking that moment to make me want to write this down, but it has my undies all bundled up and chafing me in undesirable locations.
"Is time running out?" - Well, technically, yes. Unless you know something about sacrificing virgins to volcanoes to sustain eternal life that I don't, then yes, time is always running out. Every second that hand on the clock clicks or sweeps 1/60th of the total trip around the face is 1/60th more- gone. Then two, then three...
I think I've been feeling that my sense of urgency has dwindled a bit. And by "a bit" I mean that I seem to have formed a callus on the left side of my face from the extra hours spent sleeping and having dreams about dating homeless dudes from the soup kitchen (specifically the dude that wears short, tight jean shorts that highlight his junk in a frightful way. I think he may be Cicso Adler's dad.) It's not at critical mass yet, but if I start googling "where to buy bedpans" and "home remedies for bedsores" then please, please intervene. Someone come here, drag my ass out of bed, prop me on a chair in front of everyone I know and a few t.v. cameras and bring down on me the iron fist of shame. Please. This is not who Whiskeymarie is, and nothing gets this gal going more than a healthy dose of shame and self-loathing. Mmmm, mmm, good.
Those of you that know me know that I can sometimes, on occasion, be a woman of extremes. I tend to "go for it!" with all the gusto I can possibly muster up, not entirely unlike Angelina Jolie driving down a country road and seeing a large box labeled "free babies!"
I tend to throw myself into things wholly and unconditionally, usually without a plan or any idea of the outcome. I really have never seen this as a bad thing. I hate to over analyze things- I dare say that as expressed in a proportion, my time spent thinking about the details of most of my big life decisions as compared to the amount of time that said decision will affect my life is somewhere around 1/3,429.
I've been lucky, this has (with the exception of the unfortunate decision to adopt that family from Mongolia and have them move in with us) worked pretty well for me, overall. I have done some interesting things, had some great jobs, met some amazing (and some monumentally, impressively, astoundingly unamazing) people.
Problem is, I haven't done anything of any consequence lately, unless you count closely monitoring the progress of an ingrown hair on my bikini line as noteworthy.
I've been here before, some of you know this. Don't worry- I'm not depressed, I'm not blue (unless you count my skin tone mid-January. I'm a little blue-ish then- stay tuned.). I've been there briefly some years ago, and this...well this is not that.
I just need to kick myself in the ass, or possibly beat myself with a sack of oranges- so as not to leave bruises.
I need something noteworthy. Something other than, "Wow! that's some kick-ass sock organization, if I do say so myself! Hoo-wee, that's awesome!"
Because, today, I did wake with an urgent sense that time is running out.
And it is.
It always is, dammit.