You could say I am busy, I mean, if you want.
The source of my busyness comes from being a parent to two growing life-forms. They're humans, so this means they need things. Food. Shelter. Charged iPads.
I am also a writer working on publishing a fiction book.
And yet, with everything before me, sometimes I act as if I have all of the time in the world.
I follow the castmastes of "Southern Charm" on twitter...
I walk around my house checking the undersides of all of my plants...
I'll roam the aisles of Home Goods for so long I'll start to panic, "wait, how long have I been in here? What time is it? What year...?"
These actions don't go guilt-free.
Sometimes, when I'm not doing what I think I should be doing (i.e. writing, or putting away the mountain of wash that got cleaned last Monday yet sits overflowing from a laundry basket at the top of the stairs), I'll imagine an outsider watching me. An alien glaring down from its highly-efficient planet casting stony-eyes in my direction as I stop to Google what happened to Colin and Amaya from "The Real World Hawaii," or rearrange a cluster of framed pictures on a wall. (I'll take a few steps closer, take a few steps back, tap the corner of one down ever so slightly...)
"What on Earth is she doing?" I'll imagine the alien saying, thick in its alien-judgment as I spin in my vortex of epic wastes of time.
I'll feel the need to defend...
"I'm checking my palm tree for mealybugs!"
"The kids need bathing suits!"
"I just had to know!"
(Though one time I'll never feel guilty about stopping for is Hammertime. You can't. Touch. This.)
My plan was to start a site to confess to such happenings. And if I could waste time writing about how much time I am wasting--and nobody reads it—I mean, that right there would be some time-wasting gold.
But instead of buckling down and creating a Web site, Home Goods, the Time-Wasting Mothership, called.
I went to there...
...and that's where I saw this:
I took this sign as a sign.
I realized, I can't judge the [seemingly ridiculous] things I do on a daily basis, because they are something. They, too, are my life. And many of these things make me happy.
(Except the laundry).
(I really just can't with the laundry.)
So if you find yourself plowing through the minutia of daily living, vacillating between working hard and being AWESOME at whatever it is you awesomely do...
...and spending seven minutes in the dairy aisle over-thinking which brand of Greek yogurt to purchase, welcome, this site is for you.
A happy place...
A place for happy time wasters...
Where we celebrate the little things.
The irony of human existence spent dreaming big, vs. the days comprising it lived so very small. The fantastical worlds and whole lifetimes that happen not out there, but within the square feet of our homes.
Now come, I'm going to make a list of things I have no interest in knowing about, like juicing, and the Final Four, and you, too, can get in on this excitement.
Adventure awaits us all...
I’m losing it, but it’s okay.
It really is.
The world feels like it’s falling apart, to which you might say, “wow I am so glad I am wasting my time reading this uplifting nugget,”
and I can hear my dad say, in his way as someone tough, or hardened, or smart, or simply as someone who has lived through more things, eh, it always is.
Like the time after my wedding when I asked my parents if they could store my wedding dress—because New York City is awesome for many things, but not for closets--
and their dog ate it.
The dog ate my wedding dress.
They kept it in a downstairs coat closet *because that’s where you keep extra special things!*
and their yellow Lab named Cujo I mean Cody apparently knocked it down and tore shreds into the delicate lacy sleeves.
I was upset, okay?
I can purge with the best of them, but there are things I do assign emotional value to. I keep a box of such Hoarders-worthy items on a top shelf in my office; it would send that Spark Joy lady gagging in a corner for weeks.
My wedding dress was something I felt like I should keep. (Plus, you never know when you will need it, do you remember how important it was in the movie Beetlejuice??)
I was all hissy to my parents when it happened, saying you guys. . . what the heck???
My father was there to extend a nurturing hand and say the perfect thing to comfort me and make me feel like everything was going to be okay.
I’m sorry, that didn’t happen.
My dad was there to say, “well, what the heck were you going to do with it anyway? You weren’t going to wear it again. What are you, Baby Jane?”
That, my dear Time Wasters, is what you need to hear sometimes.
Others. . .
It was a cold winter morning.
I was 23 and living on the only bad street in the entire Upper East Side neighborhood, 73rd between York and the FDR drive.
I’d walked twenty minutes east in the snow, possibly uphill, to the subway, and then braved the crowded 6 train down to Grand Central. I was an editorial assistant at More magazine at the time, mostly answering the busy editor-in-chief’s phones. I was trying. I was hopeful. I was losing it.
I bought my coffee every morning across the street from my office at Pershing Square.
Every morning, I’d look at the display of muffins through glass. . . so fluffy, so delicious. . . and not buy one.
“Come on, just get one!” my friend “the coffee guy,” how in New York your daily friends have such names, would say.
And I’d smile and say, no thank you. Partly because I was an assistant, so my money was rationed, and I chose to spend it wisely on booze and caffeine;
partly because I am a child of the 90’s, so I will always be tethered, as someone who grows up with fat-free food products does not grow up to freely buy muffins.
But this one day, it was a doozy.
He looked at me and knew.
I said, “no thank you.”
He put my latte in a bag brown paper bag. He said, to keep it dry.
When I got to my desk I opened the bag and saw inside there was a muffin.
I remember it, fluffy and delicious. Apple crumb. Still warm.
I think about that muffin all the time.
But more importantly, I think about the kindness of that man. Of one person.
How it only took one second for him to stop and something so small, to remind me that in the world there was still good.
Because as the spawn of a straight-shooter, I’ll say my dad is right.
The world will probably always be a mess, because we are messy people.
And with that truth, we need a reason to keep trying. To keep hopeful. To keep from losing it.
We need to remember that it only takes one second to make a difference in someone’s day.
We need to remember that the best portion of a good man’s life is his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
(Okay fine, and remember that I didn’t say that, but William Wordsworth did.)
Because one day, there could be a muffin.
And it could be so good.
I'd gone to look for America. . .
Though I’ll admit, at first, I did not want to go at all.
My life is small (I get the kids on the bus, I go the library to write, and ok, fine, epically waste time there crafting stories in my head about the people sharing my table ranging in ages from 19 to 195, this guy is studying for the MCATs, this guy, a retired architect; nighttime it’s homework, then dinner, then watching something like Moana). . . going to Montana on a work trip with my husband felt really. . . big.
And far. (I googled it.)
And the music in Moana is actually pretty good.
But like a chirpy twenty-something in Vegas whose motto is "say yes to everything," I felt drawn to this opportunity. I said yes without knowing any details about the trip.
And then I learned them: We'd be staying at The Ranch at Rock Creek, “the World’s Only Forbes Travel Five-Star Guest Ranch.”
I was not sure exactly what this meant, but I knew it was good, a far cry from the places I went to growing up (let’s hear it for roadside motels in Amish country, woot-woot!)
I corrected my "yes" to "oh hells yes."
I can wear sweaters, I thought, and sit by a fire. I can quote "City Slickers" AND make horse puns like "let's saddle up to the bar" the entire time!
Then came the itinerary:
Please select your activities, Mrs. Denby.
Choose from snow mobiling, fly-fishing, horseback riding, cross-county skiing...
Thoughts of "what?!" And "oh hells NO" came to mind.
What had I done.
What. Had. I done.
All I wanted to do was sit in a chair cloaked in mohair while basking in the fumes of smoked birch to the backdrop of gently falling snow and quite possibly a frolicking moose in the yonder. . . maybe channel my inner Brian Fellow. . . is that too much to ask?
Then suddenly found my behind traveling 12 hours across the country to be thrown into an icy, cold body of water.
I chose fly-fishing and horseback riding, thinking I could drink heavily before, after, or quite possibly throughout both.
I could be like I Love Lucy in the iconic “Vitameatavegamin” episode, only way more drunk.
I packed every sweater and cold weather paraphernalia I could think of, I went deep with the socks, and on a bright Wednesday morning, I was off.
...When I landed in Missoula and met my cowboy-hat donning guide, I started with the easy stuff. "How do you say moose plural?" I genuinely asked him. We boarded his truck, set for a two-hour drive. With my chin tucked into my palm, I turned my head toward the window and asked a few more questions. About the landscape. About cattle. It was if I had never been outside. Snow began falling and silence blanketed the vehicle as we drove into the night. I became lost in the thick of everything, of beauty, of darkness, of thoughts. . .
"I feel like I'm in Jurassic Park," I finally said breaking the spell.
We were lumbering up a sloping hill through gates that said The Ranch at Rock Creek, grounds I would not leave for the next four days.
My first activity was horseback riding. I ponied up to the stable (lounging, no, but there would still be puns!) with nary a thought in my head. I mean, people were asking questions, will there be this, should I do that.
My brain: empty.
I was ready to be a passenger. Just sit on a horse and go. . .
We were introduced to our horses. Meet Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen.
(No, sorry, I couldn’t resist.)
Meet Lonesome and Shorty. Basically horses with names like “Sleepy” and “In Slow Motion.” Meet, “Xanax.”
Then came my horse, a dark chocolate beauty, “Amy, meet Dash.”
Comparatively I’d been handed a horse named “Eight Ball of Speed,” but still this unfazed me. I was all, “oh hi there, fella!” I pet his long nose.
We took off single-file along a babbling creek in the snow.
I was in a Ralph Lauren ad, if the models wore sophomoric sweatshirts that said “Happy Camper” instead of suede capes and started most mornings with an anti-paleo breakfast of an American cheese sandwich.
“Dash is being lazy today,” a guide explained to me as my horse began nudging and huffing. “He doesn’t want to be here.”
“Well Dash,” I leaned over and told him, trying to sway his mind with my irresistible charm (to think, “I’m big with the foals,” I could say!). “Do you know there is a type of horse named ‘My Little Pony’ whose name is Rainbow Dash? She has rainbow hair and sparkling eyes. If I showed you her picture in a coloring book, you would lose your mind. . .”
With that he was off.
I mean galloping. . . to return to the barn, to find Rainbow Dash, who knows. . . Dash was running full speed ahead across a snow-covered field with me and all of my experience of maybe riding a pony once as a child at one of those probably illegal local church fairs.
“PULL BACK!” everyone started yelling, in terms of me grabbing the reins, “PULL BACK, PULL BACK!”
It was the only time I’d ever been told that in my life. (Go, is what is within me. Try harder. Go, go.)
The horse stopped a foot from a fence.
My eyes had been opened.
This is a land for anew:
I’ve gone to look for America, Paul Simon wrote and sang so beautifully on the album “Bookends” back in 1968.
His song a tale of two lovers on a road trip, his words capturing the sentiment of a generation in uncertain times: “I’m empty and aching and I don’t know why.”
It was Friday night and I was rambling.
I felt empty and aching and I didn’t know why.
Okay, okay, I’d had about 45 tequilas, mixed with blood oranges, so make that 45 tequilas with thirty ounces of fruit.
But I was feeling contemplative. Was the harshness of New York with its gazillion dollar crappy apartments and must-keep-moving mentality the real world, or was it the wild of Montana, where in order to survive you have to pull back?
“Did you ever read Baudrillard?” I slurred in my finest. I went on to describe the philosopher’s theory from his book Simulacra and Simulation that theme parks like Disneyland exist to distract us from the truth that nothing is real. So after we visit Jurassic Park. . .
. . . after horse back riding and catching two fish. . .
. . . after looking into the black chasms of a stoic creature’s eyes and saying my spirit animal is a bull in Montana. . .
We go back to our homes and sigh, well, back to reality! when really nothing around us is real.
(You: Wow, Amy, you sound so fun and cool and not a downer at all when you drink tequila mixed with 65 blood oranges.)
If you believe Baudrillard, then easy breezy, neither are real.
But I feel the pull of Paul Simon, telling the story of a boy so optimistic at the start of his journey, smoking cigarettes, making jokes (his bow tie, a camera!) who then finds himself contemplative, staring out the window, counting cars on the New Jersey Turnpike as they whizz by.
He realizes, we are all on a journey.
We are all searching.
We all come to look for America.
All come to look for America.
I am home now, standing at the window, watering my plants. I am looking out into a blizzard, in these uncertain times. Usually from this view I see a sliver of Manhasset Bay, with the New York City skyline in the distance. The Freedom Tower. The Empire State Building. I love looking to see what color it will be at night.
But today, I can’t see anything. I squint my eyes into the white. And yet, I know they are out there…
Anger, it was anger, the emotion I was feeling as I drove white knuckled on my way to Whole Foods. I could not belief my tremendous misfortune. Why, oh why, would I have to face the circle of Dante’s inferno that is the Whole Foods parking lot and go to that place??
But I knew why, of course, as I tried to merge into the already-clogged one lane of traffic headed south, the road to Whole Foods always a tense one, as if the painful stop-and-go pilgrimage is all part of the experience.
I was there by my own doing. I had to have this one California Baby hair gel product for my son—who barely even uses the stuff (insert maniacal laughter), I mean, if he does use hair gel at all, it’s a drop, and it gets all messed up by the time he gets back from his days as an acrobat-sumo-wrestler-or-whatever-it-is-he-must-be-doing-on-that-school-playground anyway, so, who cares what his hair looks like??!!
But I care. And I had it in my head that I didn’t want him to start using any of the other crappy hair products we probably-already-poisoned-children-of-the-80’s have been using…
…so it would have to be a gazillion dollar organic hair product, or bust.
Just punch me.
Take me out of my misery on my way to Whole Foods and shoot me with a dart.
I knew this whole trip, from the circling of the nightmare parking lot to the hoards of people inside navigating the narrow aisles on quests for quinoa, would take me an hour door to door. One whole hour, time I could have so desperately used for writing, only having a few to work while my kids are at school.
And then, there in the products aisle, horror of oh holy horrors, I learned my fate:
They were out of California Baby hair gel. I would have to go home and order it on line anyway. The whole trip of torture had been, indeed, one big EPIC waste of time.
Back in the car, I thought of Bob Dylan.
And no, not the fact that he was recently awarded the 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature and how people are debating that merit—because that’s a good use of time--our world feels like it’s falling apart, but that Bob Dylan! (finger wag, finger wag).
I thought of one of my favorite song lyrics from his song, “Buckets of Rain:”
“All you can do is do what you must
You do what you must do and you do it well”
We do what we must.
We just do.
Stay well, Happy Time Wasters,
Nobody loves wasting time with a TBT like this epic time waster over here.
That is, until, I receive a facebook notification that I’ve been tagged in such a post and my face goes flush. My pulse quickens as I click on “review” in a panic, thinking my god, what wretched artifact from my past has resurfaced, what evil spawn of satan has taken the time to upload a picture of me from the braces years, or the brown-eyeliner-as-lipstick years, or, sweet lord hay-zeus, a frat party from the 90’s.
But good news, Time Wasters, I have a safe and epic TBT for you:
Below you’ll find a link to the complete episode of Eddie Vedder and Laird Hamilton basically talking about how awesome each other is in a 2006 documentary that aired on the Sundance channel as part of the network’s series Iconoclasts.
I mean, if you ever wanted to hate yourself and your life and the meager status of your current living situation, I MEAN, if you want to see two grown men with supermodel wives (when was the last time you saw Gabby Reece??) talk about spiritual worlds, the importance of waves and take a helicopter ride through double circle rainbows, then this video is for you.
It’s so awesome, it’s so annoying.
(But really, it’s so good.)
I watched it last night, again. (For oh yes, when not googling “what happened to Jesse Camp,” the first winner of MTV’s Who Wants To Be a VJ, this is in my rotation.)
I’m not gonna lie, it’s 45 minutes of time-sucking bliss.
Plus, it arms you with the right to work in the line at parties, “hey, did you ever see the Iconoclast with Eddie Vedder and Laird Hamilton?” which will make everyone there simultaneously think you are really cool and want to punch you in the face, which I imagine is what hipsters experience on a daily basis, so, by watching this video, I’ll be basically turning you into a hipster.
So click away, happy time wasters. Happy TBT, step away from the crusting pages of your old photo albums, and click away…
**BONUS ALERT! CLICK HERE TO READ ABOUT WHAT JESSE CAMP HAS BEEN UP TO!**
Meh, I say, meeeeh, with the utmost disrespect to the sport that is their passion.
My friends keep asking me to join them in their passion and play tennis, but because I am me and can't just leave things as a simple “no,” I feel the need to elaborate. I hem and haw and “meh” like I am Larry David, digging myself into a deeper hole.
"Eh, I don't really play tennis..."
"Nah, I'm not really into sports..."
"Trying to hit a ball over a net? Meh, I...I just don't see the point."
With these probable insults, I should be wondering why I have any friends.
And yet, with the upcoming start of the 2016 Olympic Games, I find myself wondering about sports.
For couldn’t we question this about all sports? You win, you lose, eh. Couldn’t we shrug and say, what is the point?
What drives these athletes to strive for these above-human feats?
What makes them go?
My father runs 20 miles a day, my god, for what reason?? (Says the girl confident she will never run again unless she is being chased.)
Through him I once had the pleasure of meeting the world’s fastest speed walker. The whole time while chatting I thought, while you are awesome, if you’re the fastest walker in the world, why not just run? What keeps people dedicated to their passions?
I have a secret:
Sometimes, late at night, I watch a Youtube video of Kerri Strug at the 1996 Olympics.
I was 17 at the time and big into my dance team. Winning the Long Island Championship. Winning the Nationals. Winning. Winning.
(Am I an athlete? Questionable. A competitor? Hells to the yes.)
To refresh your memory Kerri was a member of the “Magnificent Seven” women’s gymnastics team and was competing against the Russians for the Gold.
(Thanks to the hockey and ice skating movies of my formative years, the 80’s, early 90’s, I will forever be battling the Russians.)
With one rotation left, she badly hurt her ankle. But the USA needed her performance to have any chance at the gold.
“Do we need this?” she asked her coach, because I was there intensely battle the Russians. (Ok fine, it says so on Wikipedia.) And the coach said yes, “you can do it. You better do it.”
Kerri does the vault with her broken foot and sticks the landing before collapsing to the floor. And oh, what pain she was visibly in! And the coach comes and scoops her up and carries her off the mat, and she wins the gold! She won the gold for American with her broken foot!
(Oh, the tears, give me a minute, I’ll just, yup, hold on…)
I don’t know what the point of sports is, anymore or less than I know what is the point of anything.
I do know that watching a performance of a girl persevere through a broken ankle is something we can all, believe it or not, relate to. We’ve all felt at times that we can’t get up, we can't go on, and then we watch and see, we SEE, that we can.
We can get up and try…to hit the ball over the net…to write a book…to not burn dinner…heck, some days I’ll settle for simply getting my family all out of the door…
"What is time, really?" Craig Sager said beautifully in a speech Wednesday night at the ESPY awards, accepting his Jimmy V Award for Perseverance.
“Time is simply how you live your life…”
God bless these athletes for showing us, reminding us, inspiring us, that great things can happen at anything we want as long as we get up and try.
Live on, Happy Time Wasters, Live on,
Watch the Kerri Strug video here
Watch the Craig Sager speech here
My blood boiled in anger as I peered into the backs of their two gray heads.
Granted they had no teeth, and were no less than 195-years-old, but still, forget respect for the elderly, what they did was wrong. They cut me on line at Michael’s, and you know what a nightmare those check-out lines can be.
I shouldn’t even be here! I internally berated myself, even before the interception by the centenarian Bonnie and Clyde. I begrudged the two fake palm fronds I held limp in my hand. I should put a real palm tree in the corner of that hallway, went the admonition, but I want that area to be seasonal. (To think of the mental state of one for whom a plant is stressful because it’s too permanent, as well who devotes time to decorating a corner as if it were on display at the White House, adornment for not two five year olds but Heads of State.)
When spring comes, I want cherry blossoms, and for Christmas, a tree. Come fall how nice would be hay bales, and in January white birch…O. M. G. SHOULD I JUST PUNCH MYSELF IN THE FACE NOW, OR LATER??? (These were my actual thoughts, standing ten deep at Michael’s behind people returning yarn, 12:30 p.m. on a 90 degree Wednesday.)
It knew it was all such an epic waste of time and energy, and yet, “Next,” droned the cashier, and step, step, up the line I crept.
That is, until, it was my turn, and I was cut off by the couple from the "American Gothic" painting returning, what else, 10 frickin’ bunches of yarn.
“Did you wait on line?” the cashier asked them catching my eye. Before I could respond, even part my lips for an utter, the female dumped the yarn onto the counter and scoffed, “yes, yes” while producing a thick stack of coupons. (It was through the protests of “yes” that I learned, no teeth.)
So, what should I do here, veered my thoughts to a moral direction…
Should I speak up? These people are wasting my time here! And what about the 7-year-old on line behind me waiting patiently for her ceramic paint-by-number figurehead of “Finding Dory?” Who is going to stand up for her???
But then, they are seniors, shouldn’t I show them respect? Shouldn’t I just let this one slide? There already was a lot going on there…the yarn…the coupons…the forced politeness of the defeated cashier … “you said that was $5.99!” “It is not on sale, Ma’am”…wouldn’t saying something cause more confusion and make everything worse?
Tick, tock, tick tock.
How often in these split-second scenarios are we forced to decide quickly, what’s wrong, what’s right?
As a parent, this is scary.
I often recall the times in my life when I had walked the line of danger, say, hypothetically, of course!, I broke into the Penn State pool at 1:00 a.m. and went off the high dive, and I realize, I wasn’t trying to be “bad,” I was being stupid.
In fact so many of these “regrets,” or times I look back on and say, wow, thank god I am okay, all have that common thread:
I wasn’t thinking.
It was so stupid.
I was being dumb.
And yet…tick tock, tick tock…we have to act quickly. Fingers crossed we choose wise.
A woman three behind me huffed loudly and abandoned the Michael’s mission. She had had it. She put down her rubber stamps and was OUT.
It was too late to stop the situation, but I could still say something to the cashier when it was my turn. I could at least acknowledge the cutting. Wouldn’t I feel better declaring, that wasn’t fair!!
And then the Michael’s gods smiled upon us, we plebeians on line/in one of the circles of Dante’s Inferno.
They opened up a new register, and this whipper-snapper rang me up speedily. I was finished while the old couple was still haggling over price. I would now have to walk past them. I could say something to them AND to the cashier!, I thought giddily. I could bust them all! Prove my point! Nay, I could say something so tactful yet so powerful, and condescending! Like, I AM the QUEEN of MICHAELS, you don’t mess with me!!!
—“Excuse me, just so you know, for future, the line starts over there…”--
My pulse quickened as I neared the controversial check-out…
This is it (clutching my palm leaves, too big for a bag, and my receipt)…
Open mouth, declare justice, and…
I said nothing.
After all, they probably weren’t bad people. They weren’t cutting the entire store to be mean. They probably just, didn’t notice where the line started. They weren’t thinking…
And I left the store, sliding my big black sunglasses down from my forehead over my eyes as I stepped through the double automatic doors into the blazing sun, thinking I mean it, I am never, EVER coming back this black hole of time sucks again.
That is, until, next time.
Stay well, Happy Time Wasters. Think, and stay well.
So, I'm back.
Or for those of you who don't know me, hello!
What have I been doing the past two years?
"Nothing," I could say, or I could say I've been "so busy."
Like how I once saw the great Jerry Seinfeld pontificate that everything in life can be broken down as either "great!" or "sucks!," the two are interchangeable.
Jerry gave the example of walking down the street and you buy an ice cream and say "great!" Then you drop it and say "this sucks!" The two can be swapped for each other and still convey the same meaning. You can drop the ice cream and say "great" flatly.
I think of this as people ask me, "what are you going to do with all of your free time now, Amy?" They mean well and people are so nice. I mean it. I swear!
They're asking because my children will be starting kindergarten in the fall and, thanks to longer hours and this magical thing called the bus that will actually pick up my children and drive them places (!), this will mean some extra time on my hands.
And yet, there's something about the question of what will I do with my free time that bothers me. Like, I will just be hanging out here, finally eating bonbons and having Calgon take me away.
Are you implying I have free time? Don't you know that I'm writing a freakin' book here, people, and I'm raising humans?
And not to mention, WHO HAS FREE TIME? That was what Facebook was invented for, to make sure nobody can ever sit with idle hands and do nothing ever again.
But no, these people wouldn't know anything about what I do with the other 1426 minutes a day they don't see me at the school drop-off line, or scrutinizing blueberry tins for white fuzzies at Stop & Shop, or examining the dried piece of ham that had been on my kitchen floor since Tuesday in horror because the whole time I just thought it was a leaf that dried-up, and leaves are okay leave on a floor all week, but apparently not ham, because I never showed them anything.
I realized, what bothers me about the "free time" question is that it forces me to remember...
I remember being in my twenties and living in New York City and running into people from college at parties or at bars.
These people would be floored to hear that I had a job. And I don't mean a "good job" or one with a brand name that had to do with interviewing celebrities, how those things equal "good" at an time when you buy your groceries at Duane Reade, but I mean any job. I could have told them I was working at Arby's and they still would've had the same reaction.
They'd tease me and explain that they only knew me as a party girl, and that they couldn't possibly picture me in a professional context. "I just can't picture you...in a suit..."
(As I sat on my secret that hells to the no, I thankfully didn't have to wear a suit and could never picture myself wearing one either.)
I remember thinking and feeling, shame on me.
Shame on me for never showing these people the side of me that is pretty quiet and nerdy, hard-working and studious.
People in life only know what you show them, and apparently I only showed the side that closey resembled Animal from the Muppets.
So here we have these minutes that keep coming. What are we going to do with them? Who are we going to be? Who are we going to show?
We all know, it doesn't matter. We know just the fact that we get to spend another moment is monumental enough. And yet, we take the gift of time for granted. We keep going in the blur.
Maybe this is the weekend, the free time, the year, that we remember this.
That as we plow through the events from great to sucks, the blur of days from nothing to busy, the many selves up and down on rotate, that wonderful things are happening somewhere in between.
Today I'm a girl who wasted time by writing about time wasting, and if I dropped my ice cream while walking I would say both, "great, this sucks!"
And that's fine. I mean, it has to be.
Now let's go, my happy time wasters, the Olsen twins, Lindsay Lohan and Shia LaBeouf are all turning thirty soon and the inter webs are blowing up with slideshows to suck us in and take us through their trials and tribulations.
Do you remember when LiLo was a singer?