The other day I crawled into bed at 1am, but after some major tossing and turning, I was up again at 3am. Surprisingly alert, my body willingly allowed itself to be led into the kitchen. (I think the smell of bacon was a huge factor.)
What business does anyone have cooking bacon at 3 am?
In the slow cooker, the bacon jam I was making was little more than a licorice goo. (Delicious goo, mind you.) But it still needed more reduction – which meant I had to sit nearby watching the stove while attempting to be productive without the aid of my glasses (lest I fall back asleep on the watch), which meant attempting to blog half-blind.
This is good. This quiet time alone, even though I wasn’t technically alone in the house, was somehow exciting. As if I was doing something secretive. Something that can be presented with a bingbangboom to the other occupants when they finally will themselves out of bed.
This is good. Because finally, I’ve succeeded in forcing myself to spend time doing something that takes time, and have that be something I actually want to do. I found time that I would never normally have, or never have allowed myself to spare. I found a way to let go of those things most people keep saying are “super urgent” or “veryyyyy important “.
This is good.
Stealing time for this injection of industriousness does come at a price though. I made the decision to leave a job I was reasonably good at for a while,
so I can contemplate if I could leave it for ever so I can make time for the things I love, want, and need to do – while receiving no income.
And there are plenty: Make time for my loved ones. Work out more often. Get rid of jiggly and lumpy bits on the body. Experiment more in the kitchen. Write. Write for a living. Write for fun. Write regularly. Take pictures. Clear out the wardrobe. Clean up the house. Learn to drive. Dance… None of which I had the time for when I was working, even with my superhuman multi-tasking powers*.
I had finally plucked up enough courage to throw my hands up and surrender, and reckon with the fact that I am no Wonderwoman, even if some of my garments proudly declare myself to be.
And that’s where this story begins.
Soon enough, Not Wonderwoman shall begin her journey into self-fulfillment, personal growth, ____________ (insert your own rah-rah phrase).
I might have fun. I might not. I might make rude gestures in times of triumphant glory/immense fury. I might howl in misery in moments of defeat/frustration. Whatever it is, it’ll be nice to friends, so…
*I text when when I’m running on the treadmill while scribbling notes on my presentation printouts while rehearsing the presentation out loud while mentally kicking myself for not bringing down a magazine.