Working Full-Time - Exhausting!

I am beat. Too tired to move, too tired to eat, even--and this shows you the true depth of my exhaustion--too tired to play with the cats. What accounts for this mental/physical exertion? I've been working full-time.

Thankfully it's only a one-week gig. I live near the furniture capital of the world, or some such nonsense, and twice a year there occurs what is known as Showtime Fabric Market.

It's huge. People come from all over the world to view rooms and rooms and floors and floors of fabric samples and accessories. It's mainly a lot of furniture and clothing companies, coming to buy new lines for the season.

So what is our beloved writer doing here? Folding fabric samples.

I swear it's true. For a nice hourly wage, these companies need people to fold fabric swatches back into manageable order after their reps display them. It's repetitive, anti-mental work that makes me deeply, deeply appreciate my regular writing life. Still, a group of friends and I decided we could use the extra cash and signed up for the week. However, the showroom is about an hour from my home, so factoring in drive time there and back plus the workday, I'm at just over a 12-hour day.

I know--wah. Lots of people have it worse. I agree. I'm just sharing my perspective.

I used to work full-time away-from-home jobs, but apparently I've lost the knack. If I worked full-time outside the home now, I think my marriage would suffer. As proof, I offer a peek at our conversation last night.

I walked in the door about 7 pm. My husband met me with a big smile and a hug. "How'd it go?" he asked.

I put him at arm lengths and held a finger to my lips. "What I need from you," I said, "is the remote, a hot tea, and complete silence for the next two hours."

Oh yes, I am loads of fun to be around.

I will share that I'm embarrassed how quickly my ego reared its ugly head. I like to think of myself as someone not overly attached to job titles. But in my first five minutes there I admit I wanted to wear a badge that read, "Ask me about my Masters degree."

Something to think about.

I left a bit early today as I'm teaching a 3-hour public speaking course tonight. Tired or not, I always look forward to those. So I'm off to make some copies and finish my prep work. Then after class I'll get a good night's sleep.

I better. I've got about a 1,000 fabric samples with my name on them waiting to greet me tomorrow.

Cleaning Day

Back in the days of our courtship, Friday nights meant dinner out and holding hands during a movie. Ten years into the marriage, Friday nights now mean "Scrubbing bubbles" and the smell of Lysol. That's right, Friday night is cleaning night.

Aside from a quick vacuum and cursory dust, we used to be able to go for almost a month without having to do a heavy-duty cleaning. We're neat people by nature, and tend to clean up after ourselves as we go. All that ceased to matter however, when we got cats.

The first cat wasn't so bad. We noticed some extra hair around the house and instigated an "every-other" week cleaning policy, which we did on Sundays. (Go to church all you want--nothing brings God closer to me than waking up Monday morning to a spotless house).

Then we got cat number two.

She looks innocent enough. Fairly small, a tabby, big round eyes that plead innocence to every wrong doing. How were we to know she was little more than a 24/7 shedding machine?

Day three after she was with us we realized big changes were in order. We started a weekly cleaning. With both of us working top speed, non-stop, we can have the house clean (floors swept, tubs polished, trim dusted) in about 3 hours. Every other day of the week, I love our home. On Fridays, I can be found cursing as I run the vacuum, wondering aloud why is it exactly we think we need so much d*@# space??

We soon realized though, that the weekly cleaning wasn't doing the trick. We'd put the finishing touches on a room, walk out and then hear a "fwhump!" as the kitten walked by and deposited two tons of new hair on the floor.

Back to the drawing board.

So we took it back down to every other week. Might as well, for all the difference the weekly cleaning makes. And we do make efforts to roll the couch (to get rid of excess cat hair), wipe out sinks, and do a mid-week vacuum.

Still, I miss the days of being able to clean out of desire versus stark necessity.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go get an early start on cleaning. I think I'll need it. If I'm not mistaken, I just heard several loud "fwhump" noises in the hall.

Disasters R Us

I have inherited many traits from my mother. Her cheekbones, her profile, her hands, the way we both run a finger over our bottom lip when we're reading.

There is one trademark, or tendency though, that I wish I had not inherited. This is my mother's ability to see doom and disaster around every corner.

I haven't yet reached my full potential yet in this regard. For example, if someone is supposed to arrive at my mother's home and they are, say, 20 minutes late, the doominator appears.

"Oh my God, what if there's been an accident? What if they're lying unconscious on the side of the road? We'd better start calling the hospitals."

The rest of us cough, ahem, and then dare to suggest that perhaps they're just stuck in traffic or running late. Only when the people themselves walk through the door will Mom be convinced they're not dead.

I laughed at my mom's doom day prophecies, until my husband pointed out I'm just as bad. To wit, we will go hiking in the mountains. The last time we were there, we reached a summit and were sitting on a rock cliff, enjoying the view. A family with a nine-year old, a five-year old, and a dog appeared behind us. The nine-year old bounced (as 9-year olds do) over to the edge. "Cool!" he exclaimed. His dad was right behind him, hand on his shoulder, and they really weren't all that close to the edge.

That didn't stop me from being able to see, literally see, this small boy toppling over the edge to his death. Anything could happen. His foot could slip, there could be some moss, he could throw a rock too hard and hurl himself accidentally over the edge on the follow-through to his throw. Dear God, why, WHY wasn't the Dad moving him back from the edge??? What was the matter with these people?!

My husband glanced over at me. "He'll be fine," he said, taking a bite of his sandwich. "His dad's with him. Stop holding your breath."

I gave a big exhale. Then froze in terror. The dog (no puppy, no!) was sniffing around the rock. He was a small dog and there were falcons out. What if one grabbed him? Or what if a squirrel appeared and the dog raced after it, only to realize too late that the cliff ran out? Then the family was going to have to watch their beloved white puppy go splat. Nice.

"I'm calling the humane society," I mutter.

My husband raised his eyebrows. "To report what? The nice family that included their dog on their family outing?"

"No," I said through clenched teeth. "To report their blatant disregard for the well-being of their dog." We both looked at the dog. He was sniffing a butterfly on a rock and looked very happy.

"He looks very happy to me," said my husband.

"Sure, he's fine now," I countered. "But wait until that butterfly takes off and the force of its wings beating blow the puppy off the cliff."

"Right," said my husband, gathering our things. "Time to go."

My mom and I feed off each other. When I called to tell her about the snarling thing in the wall, her first comment was, "Uh-oh. Are you sure one of your cats didn't get in there with it?" Now, bear in mind our home is completely plastered and the inner walls sealed off. There is no way one of our cats could get inside the walls. But that didn't stop me from conducting a frantic search of the house, panting and terrified until I located both cats napping in the sun and looking at me like I was insane when I burst upon them.

I told my husband what had happened. He looked at me and asked, "Well what did you expect? Why in the world would you tell your mother there is some creature in our walls? You're lucky you didn't kill her with that information."

Maybe so. But it's comforting to know there is one other person out there who not only is as crazy as I am, but who made me the nut case I am today.

I love you, Mom.

Have to vs. Want to

I've been thinking about the natural rhythms of life and how we work against them.

For example, I wake up naturally at 7am. Doesn't matter if I went to bed at 9:30 pm or 4 am the the night before, that's what time I wake up naturally with no alarms (or cats on top of me, meowing to be fed).

But I don't allow myself to sleep in until 7. It feels wasteful. While I am not naturally an early riser--I bump into walls for the first 30 minutes I'm up--I do like being up early because I get so much done. I can eat breakfast, work out for an hour to an hour and a half, shower, meditate, and do a load of laundry all by 8:30. When I get up at 7, I feel like I'm playing catch-up all day, trying to regain those two lost hours.

But yet, doesn't it stand to reason that if my body clock is set to 7am, that's what time I should get up?

Part of it is I just feel the need to get everything done in the morning. Morning is my best time to write, meditate, and exercise. And while I really probably should just get out of bed and start writing in the morning, exercise takes precedence. I've discovered that if I don't work out in the morning, it won't get done.

The big thing for me is I don't like having to shower and get ready twice in one day. And I'm not all that high maintenance a gal. I can start from scratch and be showered, dressed, make-up'd, and hair styled in 30 minutes. I just don't like to.

I think a lot of women feel this way. I laugh at those commercials for the YMCA or Bowflex or whatever that promise you only "20 minutes a day" to a buffer bod.

Their products may lead to low body fat ratios, but any woman knows the 20-minute thing is a joke. Once you add in changing into exercise clothes, driving to the gym, working out, driving home, and showering and dressing again, you're generally up to a good hour. Not that this is too much too ask, but let's not kid ourselves that it's just "20 minutes" out of our busy lives.

Still, I'm grateful to exercise. A couple months ago I was flipping channels and Jamie Lee Curtis was on Dr. Phil. She made a statement to the effect that she switched her vocabulary from "have to" statements to "get to" statements, and described the impact on her life. I thought it a brilliant strategy and have been using it. And for the most part, it really is motivating.

For example, if I face the treadmill and find myself thinking, "Ugh. I have to exercise," I correct myself and say, "I get to exercise." It's a subtle reminder that I'm lucky enough to 1) be physically fit enough to partake in exercise, 2) have a home gym, 3) have the time to do so 4)have the motivation to challenge myself, etc.

Same thing with work. If I find myself thinking "I have to write this article," I switch it to "I get to write this article." Again, it's a reminder that I get to spend my time doing what I love, writing.

I've found it really does make a difference in how I perceive life.

Which is somewhat off track from where I started, with natural body rhythms. I'm curious for anyone out there reading who wants to comment...do you feel like you follow your body's natural schedule rhythms, or do you, perhaps by necessity, force yourself into sleeping, eating, waking patterns that don't come naturally? What do you think the long-term effects are, if any?

And now I must leave because I GET TO go program phone numbers into my new (and as of yet, unused) cell phone.