SELF ANALYSIS: Multitasking

It has been an absolutely beautiful day outside today. Yet, I didn’t do any of the gardening, nothing at all.

I’ve been in a decent mood the past several days. But I did little to no writing.

There are so many directions I must run to, but I cannot oversee the traffic, and instead of balancing (I used to be able to do two entirely different projects with each hand independently working of the other), I am feeling overwhelmed.

At some point, whatever I have lived with for the past six months is no longer an excuse to slack off the way I have. I’m getting lazy.

And fat. Normally, jeans in sizes anywhere from 1 to 10 may fit me, depending upon where they are made. Countries with small people make the sizes huge right after size 6. Clothes from other countries I might need an 8 or 10. There may be a good fifty pairs of jeans within my closet–no, I am not rich nor spoiled, just frugal and my size and shape are as variable as my mood. These jeans represent thirty plus years of not giving to the Salvation Army. This isn’t odd when you weigh about 100 lbs. and one or two lbs. lost in a few forgotten meals or gained in chocolate are the difference of inches in a waistline. I struggled into a pair of jeans this morning, rearranged my shape by conscious stretch and breathe, zipped and buttoned and buckled on my belt to find that I could hook it four notches in from where I wore it yesterday. But then…

Beautiful early spring days call for spareribs on the grill and potatoe salad (I know about the extra “e”, I just like to spell it that way). Delicious, grilled to perfection by Grillmaster (he makes me call him that all summer, but it saves me a lot of cooking if I acquiesce), the spareribs were rubbed with crushed garlic and Walker’s Woods. The potatoe salad was my usual exquisite, with the special flavor from the juice from the green olive jar.

However, I now feel fat. And that on top of my normal lazy, and disorganized, and singlemindedness, amounts to very little having been accomplished.

There, it’s out, I have admitted my imperfections, well, at least a couple. Maybe now, seeing it in writing I shall be shamed into activity. The night is young.