Too Much To Do

There's always so much to do -- most of it work. I just finished washing the hardwood floors in the bedroom and the office. As I sit here writing, I can look around and see an unlimited amount of more work waiting for me. I need to bring boxes down from the attic and shred old papers (tax returns from my mother and mother-in-law); fill the boxes back up with the papers I have pulled from the files down here (more recent tax returns, etc.), and return the boxes to the attic. The office needs a good going through, windows and curtains washed, cabinets cleaned out, to say nothing of the computers. I know I need to back up some information and delete some I no longer use. I don't know what Den has on his computer, but it's a safe bet he has stuff there that also needs cleaning out.

See what I mean about there always being work that needs doing? And we haven't even gotten out of the office! Kitchen cabinets need reorganizing; bookshelves need cleaned and organized; the refrigerator needs cleaning out, the windows need washing -- the list seems endless and I get tired just thinking about it. Then there's the outside -- flower beds and vegetable gardens need weeding (always!); roses need deadheading; grass needs mowing; and I want to rearrange the back garden with less patio blocks and more green. We need to finish painting the house, fix the roof and clean out the garage. (The word "we" in the last sentence means Den.) I never did get the picnic table and swing stained this year, something I should have done in May.

These are the things that need doing, but what about the things I want to do? I have to admit, I probably did more of them this summer than I should have, thus leading to all the things that didn't get done (see above). I took walks, swam, read (a lot), visited with friends and relatives (both in person and through the computer), went dancing, worked on my writing, drawing, knitting, crocheting and quilting.

But all the time I was enjoying myself, I was also feeling guilty. Was this because of some inner makeup, or the way I was raised or a combination of both? The big question I have is -- Do men feel this way, too?