Wasted time

The weekend comes, a holiday comes, and it’s always the same: it’s going to be the ultimate solution, or so I believe. I’m going to sit down, once and for all and figure out my life. All the little odds and ends that somehow haven’t been working, haven’t been fitting. All the things that I want to do and don’t, all the ways in which I’m lazy or careless or misanthropic. It will all get better.

A plan. All I need is a plan. With lots of bullet points and color coded. It’s going to be awesome and it’s going to be forever.

It’s going to fix my life.

And then. And then, at some point along the way, instead of getting out my notebook and starting outlining that great new life of mine, I find myself in front of the computer, with an open bag of Cheetos and episode number 6 of Voyager running on Netflix. And yes please, I want to watch the next episode, just so I won’t have to ask myself if this is the life I want. Ask myself what the hell I’m doing.

What is wrong here? Is it my plans, are they too ambitious? Is it my urge to binge on TV? Am I lazy, am I crazy, am I both? Either way, my mother was right, wasn’t she?

Or is it, maybe, this idea that my life is somehow in need of repair? The idea that spending a day (or a week) just relaxing and enjoying stories and food I love is wrong?

Whether it’s worrying too much or relaxing too much, one thing is sure: I am wasting my time. I’m not enjoying what I’m doing. I’m not in my life in any significant way. And that is never a good thing.

Time to get over it.

If I only knew how.