Reining in a Scattershot Mind

In my dotage, as I like to call what should have been the best years of my life, I find that I do best if I corset my day.  Otherwise, I would accomplish absolutely nothing.  Okay, I usually accomplish absolutely nothing, but I schedule myself for this achievement.

Friends laugh at my uncompromising ways.  They’re flexible.  I’m not.  So don’t ask me to drive after dark or go to the movies or absolutely anywhere in the afternoon.

Herein lies my daily schedule:

7 am to 8 am, I wake up, usually after interrupted sleep.  I reach for my phone to discover if my husband has fallen during the night and been taken to the hospital.  When the text bubble is blank, I celebrate yet another day in a very long marriage.

Waking to getting up:  I read all my news sites and find out the country/world is still going to hell in a hand basket.  Then I wonder about using that cliche.  After the news, I play games, Wordle, Connections, The Mini Crossword.  Usually, I’m totally stymied on that one.  I’m not good at crosswords.  If I’m being lazy, I’ll play canasta on the iPad.

Finally, I rise from my bed and prepare myself for the day.  My outfit depends on my expectations of what I’ll be up to at some point during the hours ahead.

Ready, or at least clothed, I head downstairs, get some water, maybe throw in a wash, then sit down at the computer.  To play, yes, more games.  But first I read three news sites and wonder why none of them has anything positive to say about the world.  Maybe there’s nothing positive to say?

Work beckons.  And yet, I have ways of avoiding it.  I might go grocery shopping or to the library or off to visit friends or my husband.  But between 12 and 12:15 I’m home because I have lunch at 12:30.  Never a minute before, sometimes up to half an hour late, I break my fast.  I know breakfast is allegedly good for you, but I’m just not hungry in the morning.

Do I savor my luncheon, usually a sandwich?  Sometimes.  What I really savor is the magazines I read while eating lunch—thank you, Libby.  What would I do without you?

Between 1:10 and 1:20 I finish lunch and return to the computer, where I play solitaire for about 20 minutes.  Then it’s time for the most precious part of my day, my nap.  I arrange my life around my nap.  Ever since leaving the family homestead, I’ve taken a nap.  Even when working, I’d come home and take a short nap.  I need my nap, something people who don’t nap don’t understand.  The mind needs cleansing, the body needs the release.

Of course I don’t nap right away because this is also my time to read.  I don’t know about you, but I’m absolutely frantic if I’m not engaged with a book. I know there are a million books out there waiting to be read, but you have to get into one, you have to invest.  Sometimes that’s hard.  But when I find something I can devour, I cherish it.

By 2:30 I’m about to set my book aside and close my eyes.  If I wake before three thirty, I’m angry.  Damn.  Where is my me-time?

Three-thirty to four-something I recover from my nap by looking at the trees out my window and thinking.

Between four and five I do household chores I’ve been putting off, like emptying the garbage, folding the clothes—usually left in the dryer for at least three days—loading/unloading the dishwasher.

Five I turn on the television for the first time.  I don’t watch during the day because it’s a time waster and besides I have my games.  I’ve suffered a television upset lately because Wolf Blitzer has been demoted to day time and now there’s nothing really to watch.  But I switch channels and get the gist of of what’s happening, reconfirming my morning opinion that the world is going to hell in a hand basket.

Usually at 5:50 I turn off the television and go to the computer, playing a few more games until my husband calls between 6:10 and 6:30.  He’s in assisted living with a caregiver.  I ask him about his day and he tries to remember.  Sometimes the days are jumbled together and he can’t recall what he had for lunch, but he usually gets dinner right.  He asks about my day, but when I begin to respond, he loses interest and starts talking about something else he did.  He will pay attention if I mention our children.

Sometimes sad, sometimes angry, always annoyed, I end the call, professing my love, as does he.

Time to delve into the New York Times on my iPad.  Something else to get annoyed about.

At that point I’m thinking about what to eat for dinner—in front of the television.

By 7:30 I’m in front of the television, watching something or other for about two and a half hours.  Any longer than that I get bored.  So many streaming channels, sometimes so little to stream.  Shows that got raves—I wonder why.

Ten o’clock I’m trudging up the stairs to bed.  I often wonder why it takes me twenty minutes to get ready for bed.  There has to be a way to streamline this.

I arrange my pillows just so and read for at least an hour, sometimes two, with the hopes that I’ll drift off.  Usually—not.  But it’s nighttime so I must make the effort.  I get out of the warm bed to rearrange the pillow and then find an audiobook that I hope will put me to sleep.

At some point the night takes hold.  And I think, wouldn’t it be pleasant to awake with the sun? An unusual occurrence in the Chicago area.

Morning comes.  The hamster gets back on her wheel.