Now was supposed to be the time for interior decorating. Minimizing stuff. The time for early morning coffee and conversations with my husband; conversations about whatever came up. The time for crossword puzzles and Words With Friends.
Now was supposed to be the time of more freedom and easier movement in the world. My son is grown and pursuing his goals so now was supposed to be the time for a different focus. The time for traveling: long weekends to wherever we wanted to go, finally those trips to places I’ve always wanted to see. The time for writing and photography. The time for more racquetball.
Now was supposed to be the time for manageability. The time for meditation.
Let me stop mincing words. Now was supposed to be the time for Me.
But it isn’t. It isn’t about interior decorating or minimizing or quiet conversation. Quiet conversation? Ha! Movement isn’t easy, it’s cumbersome and glacier slow. Long weekends aren’t to get away, they’re filled with toddler music classes and swimming lessons and trips to the playground. And nothing feels manageable, not my time, my space, my emotions. Do I seem angry? I am, but it’s not the only thing I feel (just the only thing I’m writing about today).
Now has been rearranged from what was supposed to be to what is.