It's a deliciously beautiful day, today. I want so badly to go running outside--literally, with my arms wide open and my head tilted back to feel the sun, like I did when I was little, alone in our backyard. It would be so bright that, with my eyes closed, I could see dark red, no black, and I could see spots when I opened my eyes.
I want to go out right now, but I am a working gal, now. (Four jobs, technically, though three are part time. Oh, and I tutor Latin once a week, as well.) And tonight, I teach a class at our local YMCA, so that will cut into the evening hours, as well.
I love to be doing things, and to be busy, but it's days like this that make me want to play hooky. I looked ahead at the weather for the week, and lined up everything I'm doing alongside the schedule. When can I go ride my bike again? (I took it for a spin the other day, and even got to ring the bell! I love my bike.) When will I have time to go for that once-a-week jog I'm trying to make myself keep up with?
It cuts into writing time, too, when you get so busy. That's what happens to me, every so often. Then I wish I didn't have to work; that I could spend every day doing what I want, reading, studying languages, writing, jogging, dancing, gardening, cooking, and I suppose even some deep cleaning, because *someone* would have to...
That sounds busy, too, doesn't it? And then I remember--but wait! What about choir? And what about--
Some people have gambling problems. Perhaps I have a busy-ness problem. But I seriously have a hard time imagining not doing much for more than a day at a time...if that much. Even with the sun shining.
I can still run around outside over my break, I suppose. I can still find time to enjoy the sun. Even if it means sitting on my front step to eat my supper.