Time Management Monday

later

Running late, like usual, I punch the gas and feel the car lurch forward and kick through the gears.  It will make little difference; I look at the clock and am already late.  Later than late, by my quick calculation. 

Earlier in the year, I set the clock ahead five minutes to trick myself into hurrying.  Unfortunately, I out-tricked myself because I am always late and the ploy immediately lost its power.  I will reset the clock when Day Light’s Savings goes away or comes back, depending on how long I wait. 

It’s a non-stop fight against the clock that starts as soon as I hit the snooze button and lasts until the end of the day when I try to negotiate a deal with the alarm for the next morning.  I read books and blogs about time management and constantly employ new strategies to stretch time, but like a gambler, any minute I make has already been spent and must be used to repay old debts.

I blow through a yellow light and race around an old Honda.  An ancient woman is at the helm, barely able to see over the steering wheel.  She may be driving by memory because it seems that she is unable to see through the dark sunglasses that cover most of her face.

Ahead a line of cars forms in front of a red light.  I slow down, not interested in starting a chain reaction of cars, each separated only by a few inches and good bit of luck.  

Pow, pow, pow, I can hear the smashing in my mind.

Then the faint sound singing drifts into my car.  The windows are up and volume of the radio is low.   Yet, there it is.  A man’s rich voice floats through the morning air and fills my otherwise empty vehicle.  The source is not far behind, a man walks up the street, half wrapped in a grungy blanket, wearing a ripped t-shirt and boxers.  He only carries a strange tune and nothing else in his hands.  The blanket unwraps and drags along the sidewalk behind the man.  

He leads with his open mouth singing “Hallelujah” and passes the line of cars without noticing those watching him with a confused sense of admiration and shock, concern and wonder.   

At the green, I gun it again.  

I look in my rearview window with a sudden regret and desire to do something.  The man continues on his path, pulled jerkily onward by an invisible string.  I briefly consider calling for emergency help before deciding to do nothing and return to my fight against time to leave the man alone in his. 

Monday

ice

The horizon blazed warm shades of orange, yellow, and hot pink. The sun rose, a fiery ball, in the East. Yet, there was no heat from the sky. I shivered to think of my husband puttering to work in the old Hyundai with its sometime hot/sometimes not heater. Hopefully, he wore gloves, but I doubted it.

I returned my focus to the glittering road. Everything on either side of it was frozen in place. Trees were lined in white; their branches hung low with winter’s burden. Smoke curled from chimneys and hung in the air, too cold to hurry away.

The day felt brittle, as though one strike against the fabric of time and it would shatter into a million bits of ice to melt on the first warm day of spring. No one would miss it. No one would remember.

My car fishtailed as I slowed for a red light. I pumped the brakes as I scanned ahead and tried to remember if this was the very situation in which to not pump the brakes.

As the car spun around, I prayed all the prayers, promising to be good and kind, to keep New Year’s resolutions, to be a better person, in exchange for protection from what was about to happen. I closed my eyes and resigned myself to Fate.

It was a beautiful, cruel morning to start the week.

Just one minute

A warm breeze blew around my face as I walked into work today.  It pushed a heavy strand of dark hair out of place from behind my unusually small ear.  The air carried the smell of a grassy field of wildflowers.  It must have gusted and rolled along for many miles through the dirty city to reach my finely attuned nostrils.   As I pushed through the silver doors, I imagined I was barefoot and swinging on the front porch.  Higher and higher, the wooden bench creaked and the springs squeaked.  Only briefly did I worry about going to high when it felt like the sky was the limit.