In the middle of a thirty minute presentation on managing stress yesterday I realized I was tensing my shoulders and back as I checked the passing time on my phone.
I live ten minutes in the future.
What are you going to ask me? Here’s the answer.
I’m not done yet, am I? Let me anticipate exactly what you want (or what I think you should want), then do it.
I feel like I’m constantly ready to pounce and I feel it.
I feel it in my arms, in my back, in the tip of my tongue as it stumbles into my teeth when I try to scoot all my words out as quickly as possible.
Because we don’t have enough time and if I’m ten minutes in the future, then everything is due ten minutes sooner. Pretty soon it will be due yesterday and don’t we want it to be the best that it can be?
On Thursday I spent twelve hours on campus.
Thirty minutes getting there.
One hour and fifteen minutes feeling confused in Astronomy.
One hour and fifteen minutes in an office.
Four hours in another office, filing scholarship papers, bills and sorting mail.
A few minutes every hour answering questions.
One hour printing papers, buying thank-yous.
One hour showing and telling.
Another hour just telling.
Two hours discussing.
I have skipped sleep and lunch and I am not one of those people who can do without the sustaining power of sleep or food. I am the Hulk. I am the evil stepmother. I am not myself. And I am exhausted.
I spent an hour and a half talking before going back to the Hulk’s life. I saw me for the first time in days, maybe even weeks. I saw this me that I really enjoy. I see this me when I write and read and tweet silly things and I want her always.
I write more when I’m feeling like this.
Maybe I just want the world–the whole world, Veruca Salt-style.
I’m in this place now where I cry when I read quotes from Lord of the Rings and it takes me two and half weeks to respond to my best friend’s emails (from New Zealand) and I send out messages like “Give me ten minutes” then take half an hour and I come home to more work and the monkey on my back is a deadline or two or four or seven and I can’t finish this sentence because if I stop talking I have to move on and I don’t feel like it yet.
“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to”
I want to hang the adventure plaque by the door and I want to explore.
But my bones are heavy with the weight of the future and I’m not sure they can take the extra steps.
This is probably the beginning of my mental collapse. I need a massage. Or a margarita. Or both. Probably both. But I’ll start with sleep.
Welcome to my nervous breakdown!