Dear Time, Could You Please Slow the Hell Down?

Seriously, wasn’t it just January?

I’m pretty sure I just put away the Christmas decorations, and yet somehow here we are in September. Fall is knocking on the door, stores are already making room for Christmas, and I’m still trying to figure out what happened to June.

Actually, forget June.

What happened to Tuesday?

There are weeks when I swear I go to bed on Monday night, wake up a couple of times, and suddenly it’s Friday. I know things happened in between. I worked. I did laundry. I bought groceries. I answered texts. I probably stood in the kitchen at least once trying to remember why I walked in there.

But an entire week?

How?

And sleep is even worse.

I can spend an afternoon doing something and somehow three hours feels like twelve. But the minute my head hits the pillow, time apparently kicks into warp speed.

I close my eyes.

Approximately seven seconds later…

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Good morning!

Excuse me?

Absolutely not.

I JUST GOT HERE.

When Did Time Start Moving This Fast?

I don’t remember time always moving this quickly.

When I was a kid, summer vacation lasted approximately seventeen years.

The weeks leading up to Christmas? An eternity.

Waiting for my birthday? Torture.

Even a school day could feel like it lasted long enough for civilizations to rise and fall.

And now?

I buy a gallon of milk, look at the expiration date and think, Oh, that’s forever from now.

Then suddenly I’m standing in front of the refrigerator wondering how the milk expired three days ago.

I’m also beginning to suspect that the 1990s were not, in fact, ten years ago.

I don’t appreciate this information and would prefer that no one verify it for me.

But the strangest part about time moving so quickly isn’t watching another birthday roll around or wondering how we’re already approaching the end of another year.

It’s the constant feeling that I’m falling behind.

That somewhere, somehow, I’m dropping the ball.

Probably several balls.

And I don’t even remember what all the balls were.

We Really Need to Get Together Soon

You know that friend you keep meaning to make plans with?

You run into each other or exchange a few texts and say:

“We really need to get together!”

And you mean it.

You genuinely mean it.

So you say you’ll look at your schedules. Maybe you even toss around a couple of possible weekends.

Then life happens.

One week turns into two. Two weeks turn into a month.

Then one day you realize you haven’t seen each other in six months.

SIX MONTHS.

How did that happen?

It isn’t because you don’t care about each other. It isn’t because you didn’t want to get together.

You just… blinked.

The same thing happens with projects.

I have things I was going to finish “soon” that I started three years ago.

Three. Years.

At some point, I apparently stopped working on them without ever officially deciding to stop working on them.

They’re just sitting there patiently waiting for me, probably thinking, She’ll be back any minute.

Oh, sweet little unfinished project.

I have some bad news.

The Never-Ending Feeling That I’m Behind

I think that’s the part I’ve been struggling with lately.

It’s not just that time seems to be going faster.

It’s that I can’t seem to keep up with it.

There’s always something I should have done.

Someone I should have called.

Something I meant to finish.

A place I wanted to go.

A closet I was going to clean.

Pictures I was going to organize.

Plans I was going to make.

A book I was going to read.

A trip I was going to take.

Something I was definitely going to do “when I had a little more time.”

And then I look up and another week is gone.

Or another month.

Sometimes another year.

And it’s really easy to turn that into guilt.

Why haven’t I done this yet?

Why can’t I stay on top of everything?

How did I let so much time go by?

Why does everyone else seem to have their shit together while I’m still trying to remember what I walked into the kitchen for?

Maybe that’s one of the strangest parts of getting older.

You become more aware of time at exactly the same moment that it seems determined to outrun you.

Maybe I’m Not Supposed to Catch Every Ball

I’ve been thinking about that lately.

Maybe the problem isn’t that I’m dropping the ball.

Maybe the problem is that I’ve convinced myself I’m supposed to keep every damn ball in the air.

Maybe some of them are allowed to drop.

Actually, maybe some of them need to.

There are things on my mental to-do list that have been there for years. And at some point, I have to wonder:

If I haven’t done it in three years, do I really want to do it?

Maybe instead of moving it to next week’s imaginary list for the 147th time, I could just… let it go.

What a concept.

And maybe every unfinished project isn’t proof that I’ve failed at something.

Maybe I changed.

Maybe what mattered to me three years ago doesn’t matter to me now.

Maybe I don’t need to finish everything I start simply because I once decided I should.

That’s a surprisingly freeing thought.

Because if time really is going to keep moving this fast, and apparently no one has found the damn brakes, I’m becoming a lot more interested in deciding which things actually deserve my time.

Enter the Queenager

I recently came across a word for women in this stage of life:

Queenager.

And I have to say, I’m kind of into it.

I’ll save my full thoughts on my new queenager status for another day, because I have a feeling there’s a whole conversation waiting there.

But there is something about the idea that feels right.

Maybe this stage of life isn’t about finally figuring out how to do everything.

Maybe it’s about finally realizing we don’t have to.

Maybe being a queenager means knowing that your time matters enough to be a little more selective about where you spend it.

Not every invitation needs a yes.

Not every obligation deserves space on the calendar.

Not every project needs to be completed.

Not every ball needs to stay in the air.

And maybe “someday” needs to start showing up a little more often as “today.”

Because that’s the other thing I’ve realized.

For years, I thought there would always be more time.

I’ll travel someday.

I’ll try that someday.

I’ll go there someday.

I’ll start someday.

I’ll make time for that someday.

And suddenly I’m looking around thinking…

How many somedays have already gone by?

I Still Want Time to Slow the Hell Down

Don’t get it twisted.

I’ve reached no great state of enlightenment here.

I’m still going to complain when Monday comes too quickly.

I’m still going to be shocked every single time someone tells me Christmas is only X number of days away.

I’m still going to make overly ambitious to-do lists and then wonder why I only crossed off three things.

And I’m absolutely still going to tell someone, “We should get together soon!” and then possibly require both of us to open our calendars immediately so “soon” doesn’t accidentally become next April.

I’m a work in progress.

But maybe I can’t make time slow down.

Maybe none of us can.

What I can do is pay a little more attention to where it’s going.

I can stop spending quite so much of it feeling guilty about everything I haven’t done.

I can call the friend.

Take the trip.

Start the thing.

Or decide I don’t actually want to start the thing and cross it off the damn list.

I can spend an afternoon doing absolutely nothing without convincing myself I should have been productive.

I can say yes when I want to.

I can say no when I don’t.

I can stop waiting for the perfect time, the right time, or the mythical day when everything else is finally finished.

Because I’m beginning to suspect that day isn’t coming.

There will always be another load of laundry.

Another errand.

Another project.

Another thing demanding my attention.

And there will probably always be at least one ball rolling around somewhere that I completely forgot I was supposed to be holding.

Maybe that’s okay.

Because I’m entering my queenager years.

And if time insists on moving this damn fast, I want to make sure I’m not spending all of it trying to keep up.

I want to actually be here for some of it.

So, Dear Time…

Could you slow the hell down?

And if you won’t?

Then I guess I’d better stop waiting for you.