|You'd think it would be enough!|
I just figured out what's wrong with life. Well, my life that is. I've no idea what's wrong with your life. Could be a number of things. You should find a therapist, or a minister or a teacher or something. . . oh, wait. I'm those things. But I still don't know what's wrong with your life. Probably nothing much. Anyway, this is about ME.
Now where was I?
Oh, yeah, what's wrong with my life. Not enough hours. That's it. If I just had more hours I could do all the things I want to do AND all the things I'm supposed to do.
I'm not sure how many more hours it would take to satisfy me. More than I have, that's for ding dang sure. I just had a three day weekend and what do I have to show for it? Oh, sure I made some pickles, cooked some meals, did grocery shopping, laundry, made some shampoo and fabric softener, did some gardening, did a little writing, made some chicken stock, did some ironing, took some pictures and explored my neighborhood. But I didn't clean my gutters, wash windows, write the Great American Novel, shape my eyebrows, or install a pond in my back yard.
And when I get back to work tomorrow, I'll probably see a bunch of clients, but I won't get those monthly report thingies all done, cure schizophrenia or make my supervisor happy. I'll probably power walk for 30 minutes, but I won't lose 35 pounds. I'll do some resistance exercises, but I won't achieve sculpted biceps.
After my day job I'll teach a class. I'll go over new material and review for a test we'll have next week, but not every student will get an A. I still won't figure out how to use all the university websites without anxiety and frustration.
I have so many projects in various stages of perfection, but none of them are quite there yet. If I had more hours, I'm sure they'd all be perfect and I could start new projects. I could even relax.
As it is with only 24 hours in a day, I'm going to have to live to be somewhere around 212 years old before I'm going to get to relax and enjoy perfection. I need to squeeze eight hours out of each 24 to sleep, or I'll just stumble around bumping into walls, which is neither something I want or am supposed to do. And I'm far too busy to waste hours being tired or depressed or be . . . stumbly.
OK, I've figured out the problem. I think it's only fair that some of you should come up with the solution. Perhaps you have some extra hours you could send me.