I have this “hang-up”, as my ex-boyfriend might call it, with wasting time.  He also mentioned I had a hang-up with time, as in, being enslaved by my watch and held to such artificial constructs as hours and minutes and appointments, so we don’t need to buy into his philosophies whole-heartedly, but that’s a post for another time, and another therapy session. 

I had a day off on Friday.  Good Friday, so the Christians could celebrate consecration, or prepare for what I understand was Jesus’ Passover seder.  Or something.  While I’m dubious of the necessity for a day off for this purpose, I gladly welcome it as one of my 11 work-sanctioned holidays.  My company was, after all, founded by Lutherans, so who am I to question a day off, right? 

After a monumentally productive Thursday afternoon, where I walked the dogs down to pick Mr. Apron up from work and we at once set out for the walking trail/path/woodsy part of a local college.  We spent the next hour traipsing through the wooded scenery being frequently passed by coeds skimpily garbed in black athletic gear as they jogged their respective ways to hotness, while trying to keep the lunging dogs from attacking.  It was glorious.   We were, as usual, inappropriately dressed, me in sandals, a  skirt, and missing sunglasses, and Mr. Apron in a dress shirt and tie.  When we vacationed in Maine last summer, people stopped us on the hiking trail to tell us we were the best-dressed hikers.  Mr. Apron was then sporting a vintage straw boater.  It was a lovely afternoon.

Friday I woke up at 10:30, after fighting off the face-seeking missile named Molly who is unfortunately morning person.  She eventually gave up after 16 tries to coat my mouth with dog kisses, and I burrowed deeply under the covers, choosing a dry, unadulterated  face over being able to breathe.  I ate breakfast at 11:30, probably checked my Facebook 42 times, and just as I was about to actually do something — hook up the old printer to the new computer using the cable we ordered but thought was incompatible —  Mr. Apron came home for lunch. 

Distracted as I was, I mean, as intently focused as I was on the printer issue, I was unable to fully appreciate Husband-Home-In-The-Middle-Of-The-Day.  Feeling rejected, he soon left, spurring my subsequent text (after I’d successfully printed out the address of the nearest Christmas Tree Shops):

“installed the printer.  Sorry for my single minded focus.  I am awesome.”

Ah, Christmas Tree Shops.  One recently opened in this part of the world, and I decided to go.  I also decided that I would leave Molly out of her crate for a test-run of the house for a few hours. 

The stupid store ended up being an hour away.  An hour’s drive of stop-lights and traffic and grannies shopping for palm thingies and frustration.  After another hour, I exited CMS with seed packets, kid scissors, a bag of chocolate chips, rice noodles, and a new pair of purple gardening gloves. 

As I pulled out of the parking lot, Mr. Apron called.  Molly had, in 2 short hours, destroyed the house.  She had emptied the recycling bin, piece by piece, and strewn the bottles and cans about the living room.  With the gate up keeping Finley in the kitchen (where recyclables usually live), she had leapt over the gate, retrieved each can or bottle singly, leapt back over the gate, and taken each treasure to the living room.  She gnawed through aluminum cans, shred our carpet-sample coasters, and torn up anything with a #1 or #2  on it. 

Not to be trusted.  Oh, no.

Learned that lesson the hard way.

I felt as though I’d completely wasted my day.  One of only 11 on my calendar to do with as I please.  Indeed, I chose to sleep in (against Molly’s wishes).  I chose to have a leisurely shower and to focus on the printer hook-up, something I could have done any evening.  And I chose to drive an hour each way to a stupid chain store filled with cheap crap.  Lots and lots of cheap crap.  Admittedly, they were my choices, but it felt lousy.

I might have been happier at the end of the day if I’d woken up at 8, taken the dogs for a loooooong walk to tire them out, showered, made a Passover-friendly smoothie for breakfast, and organized my sock drawers.  Maybe I could have gone to the local hardware store for seeds and single-handed planted a starter garden in the kitchen window’s plentiful sunshine, all by the time Mr. Apron came home for lunch.  And I might have enjoyed our little tryst more. 

In an ideal world, yes, any of these things might have happened, had I been motivated.  Had I not stayed up watching Project Runway.  Had it not been so much more delicious — in the moment — to sleep in. 

People say you become more efficient with time when you have children, that you’re forced to squeeze more into each day and do laundry between bites of oatmeal and you jazzercise to the coffeepot’s percolations. 

I don’t necessarily want to do more; I’d like to first be able to forgive myself for what I am able and motivated to do.  And what I accomplish each day, whether it’s a holiday, a weekend, or another day at work.

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