TIME

Time. Merriam Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, Tenth Edition defines "time" as "the measured or measurable period during which an action, process, or condition exists or continues: Duration." It does not say that time is a variable. An hour is an hour is an hour.

Why then does time seem to change so much? Time moves so much faster these days than ever before. The time it used to take me to wrap a present just a few years ago was measured in minutes. Now it could be an hour. Cleaning the house takes a lot longer than it used to, and I may not even do as good a job (don't tell, please). It even takes me longer to get moving in the morning - longer to get out of bed, get dressed, have that first cup of coffee, etc. Sometimes it is close to noon before Den and I have finished breakfast. And those of you who know me, please don't say it's because I like to stay up into the wee hours so can't get out of bed at a decent hour. Even if I'm up by 8:30 or 9:00 AM, it's still noon before I'm really moving. And I do a lot of things after you have probably gone to sleep. Ironing, baking, shopping, knitting, reading are all late night activities. Of course, they take more time than they used to.

Conversely, time doesn't seem as important as it once did. If I don't get something done this morning, or this afternoon, or even today, what does it matter? There's always tomorrow. I like to think this is not because I have gotten a bit lazier, but that I am more flexible, that I don't need to be as regimented or as rigidly organized as before. But then, I don't get as much done as I used to. I hate to think this is all a part of getting older. It is hard to think that I am now old; I still expect to see the 35-or 40-year-old career woman when I look in the mirror, not the old lady that looks back at me. Sometimes it even takes a while to remember how lucky I am to have had all this time.

I'm not sure where I am going with this, or what the purpose of this musing about time serves. All I know is that the more time passes, the fewer are the hours in a day. I never seem to get everything done in one day that I have planned. But never mind; it doesn't matter.

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?