Monday, September 28, 2009

Amoeba Life

Discipline. It's a tough word for me to implement in my life. I'm having a heck of a time with it in all those areas that show.

I need the discipline to clean my house. The cobwebs are a clue.
I need discipline to pull weeds. Our front bed is green, but it's not because the vinca's taken off.
I need discipline to eat healthy. I've eaten popcorn, a bowl of Raisin Bran, some cheese and crackers, frozen grapes and a handful of chocolate chips today.
I need discipline to exercise. I did go to yoga, but I didn't even try to do the "Growing Tree" pose.
I need discipline to write this blog. My last entry was back in July.

I need somebody to come over here and give me a paycheck. Maybe that would encourage me. I don't get an evaluation from anyone. Maybe that would put me on notice.

Kent is way too easy on me. He tells me I'm pretty, have a great figure, and shouldn't pull weeds because it might hurt my back. He tells me to go ahead and eat another cookie, that I can exercise tomorrow and that nobody reads this blog anyway.

He never complains about any money I spend. He thanks me for making dinner when I put (almost) anything in front of him. I can't remember him ever pointing out that I needed to clean - even when Francie has torn up a tissue out of the trash into five hundred twenty-eight million tiny shreds. I don't think he notices the cobwebs, either. He's pret' near close to perfect. I won't mention the two things he does that I don't like. I think I would sound petty.

It's good and bad being married to someone so wonderful. It's good because I am probably the least stressed wife on the planet. It's bad because I am probably the least stressed wife on the planet.

I'm convinced that stress is the great motivator that I'm lacking. When I worked, I got much more done than I do now that I'm a freelancer. Shoot, I remember putting in a full day at the newspaper, then coming home and painting our living room pink (it was supposed to be salmon) while Billy Joel sang about his Uptown Girl.

I think I even got more done when I had kids at home. That's arguable, but possible.

Now my days are my own. Time is as shapeless as an amoeba. No supporting structures. On any given day I have way too many options. I can write. I can paint. I can read. I can make phone calls. I can write notes. I can clean. I can weed. I can exercise. I can eat. Whenever I want to.

The choices are paralyzing. I'm a girl who can't even decide whether to get a chicken taco or a Mexican sandwich when
we go to Tribeca. How am I supposed to decide what to do with my LIFE every day?

I think I need to start making more lists. I used to make lists. I'd go through and check things off at the end of the day. Sometimes I'd add something to the list after I'd done it, just so I'd have more to check off. It was a great feeling of accomplishment.

Yep, tomorrow I'm making out a list. In the meantime, anybody want to go get a cup of coffee?


  1. (I can't go today though, I've got to get all the things done on my list that I didn't get to yesterday. Tomorrow for sure!)

  2. I would LOVE to get coffee with you any time, even though I don't drink coffee. I LOVE your blog. In fact I've signed up as a follower so I don't miss any further posts. Hope this encourages you to keep writing. They say comments are "paychecks" for bloggers. Consider yourself paid! Amazing how connected we are after a million years apart. Even your playlist could be mine. More later... Keep writing, girl. You have a gift.

  3. when they write the biography about Tracy B., no one will wonder about the cobwebs, the waistline, or the weeds... they will be asking about the smiles, the kind words and the influences you left behind you... don't sweat the small stuff! What lady, in your past, is sitting there on your shoulder making you feel bad about this itsy-bitsy minutia? Love y'all!