TOO DAMN BUSY . . . OH, YES!
Our kitchen floor is dirty again.
Papers are piled on my upstairs chairs.
The dry laundry is still in the dryer.
And here I am, upstairs writing.
In a few years, I muse, nobody will care that on a certain Monday the linoleum should have been swept . . . by then it will be dirty again.
The important news is, I’m a grandmother with too much to do.
Too much to do is the mantra of my current life -- meaning I’m luckier than I deserve, luckier than grandmothers of the last century. There’s this medical book I’m writing with a doctor . . . manuscripts to read and a class to teach . . . four speeches coming up soon. And friends, kids, grandkids, and even great grandkids with fascinating lives, all of them sending tidbits our way—photos of a son’s first wobbly steps, videos of a tiny girl’s first hesitant words read from a book--details that are vivid, never boring.
What could be better, when you’re my age, than a hundred reasons to get out of bed?
Each morning I briefly rationalize: If I write this story, I’ll have something to keep.
Something tangible. But so will others—meaning whoever cares to read it. All these scenes committed to paper . . . well hey, paper lasts, it’s permanent. Short of a house fire, alive forever.
Along with Too Damn Busy comes Too Many Interruptions. But what’s not to like?
What’s more valuable than a lively pause to chat with someone you care about? However much time it consumes, it’s worth those non-writing minutes.
Meanwhile, some mundane chores are still waiting, grumpy but silent. Eventually I’ll sweep the kitchen floor—but does anybody really care?
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