Time-poor.

Time. I would quite like more of it to be available to me, so I can do all the things an adult has to do. Like the job that won’t just do itself, compare prices of all these insurances we’re meant to have in place, throw money at people who can complete my desired home improvements. Time to allow me to be a more present parent. Time to play with the dog I spend a ludicrous amount of money to keep his various allergies in check each year; time for myself- whatever that means.

I live in a perpetual mental state of shit I haven’t done, shit I need to do, and shit I would really like to get done, to fulfil my own unreasonable standards and maybe take over the world one day (choice of words may not be entirely appropriate for March 2022, but the sentiment stands). My general being is that mild anxiety your body squeezes into when you’re running late for something important. Restlessness made up of unanswered messages, unreturned library books, an unserviced boiler and the frequency of necessary Sainsbury’s visits.

Towards the end of last year, I was about half an hour away from burnout. I reached emotional, physical and mental capacity, entirely self-inflicted, by taking too much on and forgetting to take a minute to breathe. Instead of taking time off (something I hadn’t bothered doing in 9 months), my overachieving (or more accurately overreaching) brain squeezed in more projects, responsibilities, and social extravaganzas into an already full 24 hours.

I tried everything in my power to just keep going. I’m strong, right? I can have it all, right? I’ll just exercise dopamine into body and mind, it’s all doable. Instead of releasing dopamine, my body told me to fuck right off with my nonsense and sat me down, breathless and shaking three minutes into this effort.

A moment of clarity came when I realised that if I don’t take some time to just sit down and reboot, I will burn out- which in turn would require far longer and probably unpleasant time off- and I don’t have that time to spare. So, time off I took- a whole consecutive month in fact.

I’d love to tell you that it was rejuvenating and how I did yoga, lit candles and found my inner peace. But truth be told, my inner peace is unchill. Instead of living my best yummy mummy life, I found I had created time to implement all those grandiose taking-over-the-world plans. Facilitate memory-making adventures with my kid by taking her places supremely unrelaxing (Winter Wonderland on December 23^rd, anyone!?); continue working on projects I was supposed to take time off from and pitching for projects I didn’t have time to take on. But I also recycled a bag of dead batteries that have been on my desk since 2018. So, that’s one chore out of 37 I can cross out.

I also know I’m not the only one in this state. It’s not because I have more responsibilities or work more than others. My young childless friends are in the same boat as those with children, pets and/or care duties. I wonder if we’re all in a weird race with time to do things we haven’t been able to for two pandemic years. Like we all have something to prove to no one in particular. Maybe show time itself, that much like age, it is just another set of numbers we will not be restricted by.

Don’t bother getting your violin out of its case. For all my moaning and stressing about being time poor, I somehow manage to find enough of it to watch four separate franchises of The Real Housewives, cook dinner from goddamn scratch every night and even write this very essay.

Maybe it’s self-control and not time I lack.