There have been hundreds, perhaps thousands of jokes, puns, and plays on words concerning Time. Some of them have even been funny. That was not one of them.
I'm often on about Time, has anyone noticed? It's not an obsession, not a sickness, but more of an everpresent gnat in the ear, a sort of mildly bothering thing, something you don't always notice but when you do you really do. It's been in my ear here of late, so let me give you, in return, an earfull.
Or an eyefull. You get the picture.
The turning of the season (finally) down here from scorching hot to something approaching winter (it's a balmy 55 degrees this morning) and my daughter's incipient 11th birthday has made me think about time, and moving forward, and all that stuff. My own 38th birthday just passed, and time marches on. And I know a great many people have written on this very subject, and I'm not expecting to make some sort of massive discovery, some earth-shattering find that clicks the final piece of the puzzle into place. No, I'm just rehashing it all, trying to find something in it that might fill the void I feel when I think about Time.
Why is our time sense so elastic? Why does time fly sometimes, and other times it drags? Why is the experience of pleasure so short-lived, and why is the sense of boredom so everlasting? Why does our temporal lobe play such tricks with us? The past two weekends for me have been three-day ones, and they still seem to be gone in an eyeblink when looking back on them, and yet I know that last weekend was much like this one--spending mornings in sort of a vague, unfocused sort of way, not doing anything much of anything, almost like a bear who is about ready to hibernate. I know that there are things needing to be done, errands to run, a house to clean, various little things I could be doing to get the house ready for the mild (to you perhaps) winter that we get here, but it all seems to be somehow become less important than the Superbike race on the television, or less demanding than the book that I just picked up.
And then, Sunday afternoon, I look around and curse myself because the entire weekend is gone, including the extra day I had, and nothing seems to have been accomplished. At all. Nil. And I gripe at myself, and rail at myself, and all week at work I promise myself that Next Weekend Things Will Be Different, and they aren't. I do the same thing over again. I seem to have fallen into a rut of my own making, and not a particularly pleasant one at all. Seems high time to suck it up and get out, so without further ado, I shall go fold the laundry that's stealthily piling up on my den couch.
Please give generously to the Save Irrelephant From Perpetual Laziness Fund. Every penny goes a long way to getting him up off his large grey arse.