Two days off. It’s never enough to get everything done that I want to do.
The first day I’m always hopeful. I start out strong. Big plans. Ready to tackle everything. Sometimes I get a head start on Sunday. Sometimes I can hardly sleep on Sunday night, in anticipation of all that I plan to do.
Monday, I let myself sleep in, a little. It is my day off, after all. I linger over coffee. I make breakfast. I let other things distract me. Maybe I make a phone call or two. By noon, the panicky feeling is there, at how fast the day is rushing by, and how little I’ve accomplished. By eight o’clock, I’ve relaxed a bit. I have convinced myself that tomorrow is another day. Whatever isn’t finished, I’ll do on Tuesday. I might watch a movie, then, or take an evening walk.
Bedtime finds my mind racing once again, with all the things that need to be accomplished in the one day I have left. I set the alarm, and plan for an early start. I can’t fall asleep. I try to read. I get up, finally, thinking that if I work through the night, I can sleep late to make up for it. I’m not awake enough, though, to make much headway.
Tuesday, I’m dragging. No enthusiasm now, I’m just slogging through my tasks, in an effort to get them checked off the list. No time for getting creative; no time for relaxation. Just do it. By dinnertime, I’m bargaining with myself again. Maybe I won’t be too tired after work tomorrow, to finish this job, or that one. Maybe it will seem easier and go smoother than how it’s going now. By bedtime, I’ve taken stock of what is done and what is left to do.
I’ve never done enough.
When I’m at my day job, working at the hardware store, I give it all I’ve got…but when I leave, I’m done. I never think, “maybe I should work through the night to get that aisle in order.” Maybe I should punch a time clock at home, too. Then, at least, I could be finished, whether I was done or not.