Oh hell. I am such a Bad Blogger. I meant to be regular. I really did. But I've just been too exhausted even to think about typing a coherent, let alone interesting or God forbid I aspire to such a thing, meaningful sentence when I return home in the evenings. Which gets me to wondering, why am I so friggin' tired all the friggin' time? Here are the answers that spring to mind:
1. I've loaded way too much work on my plate.
This obvious answer, however, begs the question: Why did I do this? I actually used to be extremely good at time management, at realistically assessing my schedule, at saying no. So why have I, in my second half-century, suddenly lost those useful skills?
Which brings me to
2. I have this sense of "if not now, then never," this new urgency, this fear that the sand is plummeting through the hour glass at an ever-escalating rate, and there's just so much I want to do, to finish, to start, to try. I have no delusions about myself. I'm not one of those scholars whose work will change the way people think. But there are courses I'd like to devise and techniques I'd like to try and curricular reforms I'd like to help make happen and yes, books I'd like to write. There are questions I'd like to answer. Shoot, there are questions I'd like to ask.
But I don't have time to ask those questions because I've loaded so much on my plate that all I can do is keep cutting and biting and chewing and swallowing, no time to savor any textures or flavors, no pause for digestion, just keep forking it in in hopes that eventually the plate will be bare. Except instead it gets ever more crowded, gravy seeping onto salad, bread rolls piled high atop the grilled tofu, as I keep on taking more and more helpings, ever more anxious that if I refuse, I'll never ever have the chance to try that particular pasta or taste that sort of chocolate mousse and I will die, encumbered by pasta regret and dreams of deferred mousse.
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