Category: time

Stagnant

It seems like the older I get, the faster time is flying by. It would be dangerous to settle complacently into a corner and get too comfortable. Before I know it, days turn into months, then years, in the blink of an eye. If I don’t remain actively aware of it, what will ever change?

For better or worse, I have a shockingly stark example of what could happen if I never change.

When I first met my husband over 17 years ago, I was also unfortunately faced with his pestilent ex, Psycho. I attempted once — only once — to have a rational conversation with her about being civil for the sake of the kids. Her response was so execrable that it left no doubt that sense and sanity would never have a place in any interactions with her. 

But people learn and change, right? Well, ideally, yes, they do. Seventeen years later, however, not one septic thought or action of Psycho’s has changed even the slightest. Still ragingly jealous. Still pathologically obsessed. Still no hesitation to gluttonously cannibalize the kids to placate her hollow ego. Same tirades, same games, same silly lies on repeat, stunted and stale and predictable.

Seventeen years have passed, one day at a time, and Psycho is content to be exactly the same as she was back then. No improvement, no learning, not one single step forward, and a mortifying lack of pride, class, or self-awareness to even be properly embarrassed by that. 

It used to drive me crazy. Surely, someday, she must change, because how could anyone remain gratified with being nothing but trash with a pulse?

One major thing has changed, but on my part, not hers. I finally made myself accept that it wasn’t a temporary flaw or a momentary blunder of hers. It is exactly who she is at heart, and I don’t need to understand it. In fact, I prefer that I never do. It’s simply not worth the time or energy to ponder her countless shortcomings when she will remain precisely the same years from now, decades from now, at best garnering some charitable pity here and there, but never respect or admiration or genuine affection. The nothing she is today is the same nothing she will be the day she dries up and withers away.

What about me? I can’t believe it’s been over 17 years already since I met my husband. Psycho is the only scenery standing still. Everything and everyone else is racing by, changing on fast forward. The kids are no longer small. This spring will be the last high school graduation for us. The oldest child is now married. My husband and I, once just friends nervously getting to know each other, are also married, with our own home, building memories and making plans and looking forward to our future together, and I can’t imagine life without him at my side. 

In the same time period, what has Psycho done? Well…nothing. She chose to root herself long ago in bitterness, jealousy, and hatred, and each passing year buries her even deeper in her self-dug crypt. Still wholly supported by her father’s handouts well into her 50s, still destroying every relationship she touches. She denies reality by self-servingly patting herself on the back, calling herself an independent woman, filtering her pictures with a heavier (and more obvious) hand with each passing year, and shoveling more and more absurd lies to whitewash her meaningless life instead of attempting any real growth or advancement. 

Psycho wears the foulness of her inside in the lines, sags, and folds of her outside. There is no light, or kindness, or goodness to soften the harshness of her decline. It’s more than merely aging: it’s stagnancy, putrefying from the inside out. It’s the opposite of living. 

Time is supposed to bring change. It’s part of life. The flipping of calendar pages should bring evolution, adaptation, development. Stagnancy is unhealthy and crippling, a sure sign that something is malfunctioning. It’s a brightly blazing check engine light, a red flag a mile wide.

It scares me to look back and realize how quickly time has slipped by already. It’s like watching the road streak by from a speeding car. The only guarantee is that it’s going to keep rushing by, whether I’m ready or not. 

I still have some control over my destination. I know two things for sure: what I want to drive toward, and what I want to steer clear from. 

I want to drive my life toward: love. Peace. Happiness. Honesty. Clarity. As close to my husband as I can get, making sure he never doubts how much I adore him and cherish him in my life. Contributing to the world around me, teaching as I learn, appreciating the beauty in the most simple things around me, and discovering more about myself and the world as I try new things.

I want to be sure that stagnancy stays far, far in the rearview mirror. I don’t understand being satisfied with a gangrenous soul or rotted psyche, but there is freedom in no longer attempting to understand. It’s not my burden to fathom anyone’s poor life choices.  

I have far more important things to concentrate on, like fully and truly living my life, holding onto the light and love of each day, enjoying many more adventures with my husband, laughing as much as possible, helping whenever I can, feeling and savoring and experiencing every single thing that life has to offer me, and making sure I don’t miss the lesson or blessing between every beautiful sunrise and sunset of the rest of my days. 

Days

I have had this conversation with at least two people recently. A friend of mine from school, who I have known since 6th grade, just celebrated his 50th birthday and wrote on Facebook, “Fifty years of my life is past…gone…never a chance to get back the time lost, undo the mistakes made, rebuild bridges burned or even care just a little more about those around me or even myself.”

I hope he doesn’t mind me sharing his words. I knew I couldn’t say it better.

We talked on the phone not long ago for the first time since we were in school. It’s funny, because even though I know we are obviously not in middle school anymore, I expected him to sound the same. He actually did when he laughed. I could picture him in front of me, plaid button-up shirt, crooked bangs in his eyes. Now he has a daughter almost the same age as we were back in 6th grade.

I was showing pictures at work of a co-worker’s baby, who is over two months old now. Someone commented how time flies, since it seems like just yesterday that our co-worker went out on maternity leave. I said time has started going by so fast that it’s scary, how I look forward to each weekend, but as each one shows up, I am reminded that another week is gone in the blink of an eye.

My friend turning 50 ended his post with, “We never know how much time we may have left, so for the next however many years I may be here, I’m gonna live life, have fun, love more…”

I like that plan. It’s a good one. I want to find meaning, love, peace in each day. I want everyone I care about to know how closely I hold them in my heart. I don’t want to just cross days off a calendar. I want to live them, feel them, enjoy them, and treasure each one.

Snooze

My favorite part of each day happens first thing, as soon as I wake up. My husband and I got into the habit a long time ago of setting the alarm clock at least 20 minutes before we actually have to get up, for the sole luxury and pleasure of pressing snooze.

That might sound strange. Why give up precious sleep just to hit the snooze button over and over? Well, because as soon as I hit snooze, I roll over, and my husband is already reaching for me. We tuck in tight against each other, arms around each other, legs tangled together, and we hold onto each other in the peaceful dark. It’s serene. Quiet. Just us.

Before the day starts, before the noise and traffic and meetings and demands, we have that moment together. Most of the time we don’t even say anything, maybe an occasional “I love you” or a joke here and there. But mostly, we just enjoy the tranquil stillness, the feel of each other’s skin, simply being as close together as we can be.

This morning, I pressed the snooze button one last time, sighed, and told my husband, “I need to get up.” I started to sit up. He didn’t let go, whispered, “Just one more time.”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to be late to work.

He added sleepily, “I’m not ready to let go of you yet.”

I had to smile. How could I resist that? I would just to rush a little once we finally got up. There’s always time for just one more.

Time

There are a lot of changes in the works around here. Change can be unsettling, but it’s certainly not always bad. For instance, one big change coming up is my older stepdaughter’s high school graduation. It’s bittersweet, realizing she’s not a little girl in overalls and hightop sneakers anymore, but it’s also exciting, watching her prepare to step out on her own and take her future by the hand.

When her older brothers graduated, their father and I told them that before they know it, years will fly by, and they will wonder how they got where they are, if they don’t take charge of their lives and deliberately orchestrate what comes their way. It may seem like they have all the time in the world to figure out where they are headed, but time doesn’t slow down for anyone.

I know people who mark the passing years merely with more and deeper wrinkles, but no additional wisdom, no learning, no positive changes. Time stamps their faces and their bodies to announce its presence, but their minds and hearts remain stagnant.

Drying up from the inside out is not my idea of a life well lived. As we approached the end of my stepdaughter’s senior year, and this significant change in her life, I wondered to myself what changes I need to make, what wheels I needed to start turning so that my life is more than the flip of calendar pages. I have set those changes into motion, some big, some simple, like straying back to cast-aside hobbies or interests that make me happy.

I want to keep learning, growing, discovering new things and experiences. I’m not talking about traveling the world or hanging another degree on my wall. I’m talking about something much more subtle yet more meaningful: I’m talking about making each day count, challenging myself, being willing to fail but also trying again, to be able to say I am living with purpose and love.

My husband and I have grown even closer lately. I make a point to tell him what I love about him, to show him how I feel, and we find refuge in each other, peace and happiness that I treasure. It only makes sense that once I decided to focus on what matters most to me — and he tops that list — it strengthened our relationship and intertwined our hearts even tighter.

That’s the difficulty and the simplicity of it: to blot out the drama, the noise, the distractions, the screaming banshees, things that ultimately don’t matter, and remain focused on what does, what I hold tightly in my heart. Over time, it becomes much easier, until I wonder why I ever wasted so much energy on trivial and petty things and people. All it does is rob my time and energy from my loved ones, and that is not a transaction I am willing to engage in anymore.

As the kids get older and venture into their own futures, I hope they find that ability to hone in on what is important to them, and let the rest fall away. They will be so much happier, more peaceful, both with themselves and in their relationships. It is something they will have to discover and work through themselves, and it will take thought, time, introspection. I hope they decide they are worth the time and realize how precious each day should be.

Last Home Game

160197981I woke up this morning like any other day, not realizing at first that today is actually a special day.  This evening, my husband and I will suit up in team colors for my younger stepson’s very last home high school football game.

I have the schedule posted on our refrigerator, so I don’t know how this fact escaped me until I was getting ready for work this morning.  My husband and I were joking around, messing around, like we do every morning as we get ready for the day, and he mentioned the game tonight.  I told him I think tonight is the last home game, and then it really hit me: it’s not just the last home game of this season.  It’s the last home game, period.

My stepson is a senior, so this is his last year playing for this team.  (He deserves better, anyway, since this team’s roster is full of inflated egos, drama kings, and big mouths not backed up with substantive talent.)

Even so, it’s just odd to know this will be our last drive to this school’s stadium for a game.  This will our last time finding our seats, the last time our butts will warm the bleachers, our last half-time, the last time we will pack up our seat cushions after the game and climb down the steps to head home.

It’s sad, actually, because my stepson hasn’t played in weeks, thanks to a knee injury.  This is not what any of us imagined for his senior year of playing football.

For some reason, after the doctor prescribed physical therapy, it took nearly two weeks for any meaningful action to be taken to schedule that first session.  Personally, if he lived with us, I would have called that same day to schedule his first session, because it’s important.  I suppose not everyone’s priorities are the same as mine, though.  As it is, since nothing has gotten better since that doctor appointment weeks ago (surprise, surprise), he won’t be playing the rest of the season.

It’s not the same when he’s not playing.  I love football, but our favorite player is on the sidelines, with no hope of returning to the field.  On top of that, I know he is upset and disappointed, and there’s just not a whole lot I can do to help him with that.

Tonight’s game will be odd, just knowing that everything we do is the last time we will do it, at least at this stadium.  Of course I knew this day would come, had years to prepare for it, so why does it seem like it sneaked up on me and blindsided me?

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