Its been a strange two weeks or so. Of rushed days that stretch too long. Tired nights that are never long enough. And frantic socialising in between. Add to it a constant trail of unfinished to-dos, my work outside of work, that unquenchable thirst to get some baking done every chance I get, and to also decompress every now and then with the sudden itch to read, and somewhere it begins to feel like 24 hours is just not enough. Is this what they call the fuller life? By god, if it is, I want out.
I’m currently in that strange cusp of quitting a job and moving on to newer things. Except this quitting of job is going to be like ending one chapter of my life itself, turning the page and writing out a new story. The characters are the same, but there has been a twist in the plot. Plans have been drawn out, dreams have been delicately tinkered up piece by piece, the courage has been summoned. I’m really raring to go and all this quiet ambling stretching on is not easy.
It really is an odd state to be in, because on the one hand there is just so much happening, I am struggling to fit it all in. I feel like I am constantly running low on sleep. And my eyes have started giving up towards the end of the day, to a violent itch that only relents when I shut my eyes and keep them shut for a good long while. The husband and I haven’t spent five quality minutes together in the longest time. He’s been working hard on an impossible-to-crack deadline, and arrives home when I am already too deep in sleep to realise. There is a general sense of rushing around and not giving anything its due time. And yet, there is this feeling of being occupied in all too many things that are sucking out my energy and time, when I’d rather be doing something else. Like I want to move on to the next things, and I’m being held back.
It’s like being stuck in a constant state of pause.
It all started last evening when after 24 hours of torrential rain, looking at nothing but steely skies and a hectic weekend of baking, Anand left, and suddenly the house had just the lingering fragrance of melting cheese and herbs, but no sense of activity. The husband and I wandered around silently brooding, each of us too afraid to admit it to the other. Until finally I broke the silence.
“I’m feeling really blue,” I said.
“Me too,” he revealed.
“But maybe its just PMS,” I quickly added, passing the buck on.
I was partly right. Because I woke up this morning I woke up at the crack of dawn, with the mother of cramps from hell. Was that the universe’s sign of saying slow down? Of forcing me to pop a tablet and get knocked the fuck out for 4 more hours than I would normally have slept? Was that my body saying enough? Enough running around. Enough baking like a maniac. Enough worrying about work. Enough enough.
Whatever it was, I listened. At the time it felt like my body was telling me to get a hot water bottle, get under the sheets and snuggle up. So, I did. And let my growing list of pending to-dos grow longer. The things that suffer the most, funnily, are things that I really want to do for myself. In quiet moments right before I fall asleep, I sometimes feel my days are so busy doing stuff for everyone around me, that my own priorities feature way down on my to-do list. So my never-ending Thailand recap is in pieces, while the husband has raced ahead, with updates here and here.
My food reviews are pending, and I’m worried I will forget all that I wanted to say, by the time I finally get down to it.
And I’m really getting the feeling I should make time to read and write, and not leave it to the empty pockets that I hope will emerge from somewhere.
This is me, on a Monday. And I have a whole week to get through. My head feels woozy just thinking about it. So I’m going to turn around and drift away into another nap for the day, listening to this:
“I looked out this morning and the sun was gone
Turned on some music to start my day
I lost myself in a familiar song
I closed my eyes and I slipped away”
And maybe tomorrow, life will un-pause, and resume a more normal pace.