Never Enough Time

It seems there are never enough hours in a day. Is that cliche? Whatever. Lately I've noticed the utter lack of important, valuable things in my life (aside from the obvious) because my time is consumed with work and the mundane and my constant self-reminders to breathe.

What about reading? I've got a bookcase chock full of proof that I used to be an avid reader. Mostly fantasy and trashy romance novels. I once read like it was somehow going to save my mind from reality. I honestly can't remember the last time I opened a book. Years.

Nights consist of a rush to get dinner made, bathe Presley, get him to bed, and squeeze in an episode of Good Eats before passing out on the couch. Weekends are a phenomenon in themselves. They just . . . disappear. Admittedly, hours are lost to the boob tube. I think I sort of zone out while Pres naps because it's the only quiet time I ever have during waking hours. I watch in quasi-envy as first time home buyers are getting a surprise living room makeover on HGTV. Meanwhile, I am perpetually hateful of the joke of a paycheck I take home and am left to stuff my kid's face with Kraft's cheesiest. There's a complete lack of motivation to get out there and change the world when my body and soul hardly have the energy to yell, "Please, for the love of God, BE STILL."

I really want to be a productive member of the human race. I start to wonder if my role in this grand play is to do exactly as I do.

Sigh.

And to this day, after hundreds upon hundreds of tries, I still haven't managed to cook up a box of macaroni and cheese without spilling it on the stove.