Wishful thinking

On the eve of every week end, I find myself having a panic attack. There’s too much to do – over the next two days, over the next week, month, rest of my life. Some of my time is spent worrying that perhaps I don’t work hard enough. But most of it is spent worrying that as a single woman in New York, I don’t play hard enough. Too many books to read, movies to watch, concerts to attend…and any left over anxiety is allocated to worrying about not living healthy enough, not being organized enough, and not having a clean enough apartment.

At especially harrowing times – such as the eve of a long week end, I’m tempted to make a list. My problem with lists is that they make me feel optimistic, which is completely against my nature. Lists give me an illusion of control, when I’ve demonstrated almost none in the past. Am convinced that were I to make a list right now, I’d cut out a few hours of television, assign myself ‘movie nights’ and ‘reading nights’ and end up subscribing to the WSJ or The Economist or both. The act of ‘making’ a list leads me to believe that I’d be able to ‘make’ other things, like time for instance. 

In the past, I’ve foolishly wished for more time. If only there were 28 hours in a day, instead of 24, I’d be able to get an extra half-hour’s worth of sleep AND be able to go to the gym. What folly. If there were four extra hours in a day, there’d be at least one extra snack (if not an entire meal) to eat, and you know what that means – more TV and more dirty dishes.

No – the real solution is to have less time. If you only had 18 hours in a day, you wouldn’t stare at a mug do a merry-go-round inside the microwave for a minute and fifteen seconds. You’d use that time to get shit done. There would be no more channel-surfing, or skipping through songs-you-really-don’t-like-but-think-you-just-might-miss-if-you-deleted-them-and-so-still-have-on-your-iPod. You wouldn’t watch both the Capote movies or Infernal Affairs and The Departed – you’d pick one and run with it. And you would avoid Iñárritu and Kurasawa altogether – critics and friends and Gael Garcia Bernal be damned. You wouldn’t wonder, as you’re typing up something like this, if your post will get commented upon, let alone dare to hope for some link love. And let’s face it, you wouldn’t have the luxury to feel bad about skipping gym. For fewer hours a day must surely mean fewer hours to feel guilty in.


3 comments so far

  1. anantha on

    You know that old saying about wishes, horses, beggars and all that? Anyways, here is your comment!

  2. roots on

    G.G.Bernal be damned! oh no, you just did not say that. NO.

  3. booksmovieslife on

    Roots – yes, it broke my heart to commit that piece of blasphemy. But honestly – Babel is way past any hope of redemption by Bernal.

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