As I am sure you all realise we are fast coming up to the end of another year. Yay! But also—Yikes! I’m not at all ready for it. Well—yes I am, but also, no, I’m not, if you know what I mean. I am really looking forward to the Christmas break when I know I can take a couple of weeks off and just lie around the house and veg out (no phones, no computers, no students!) and play with my girls, go to the movies, do some sketching and catch up on my reading (and sleep)—but I am also very aware there is still so much I have to do before then.
To tell you the truth my brain aches. I have never had any trouble relaxing my muscles—in fact you could say I am a bit of an expert at it (sloth is my favourite deadly sin)—but my brain is a whole other story. Although I can see Stirling Moss’s point about not relaxing your brain totally, it would be kind of nice to at least be able to switch it down a notch—or three. I like to think I am pretty good at dropping into relaxation mode when I need to and I can’t say I consciously feel overly stressed about anything—but every now and again my brain likes to kick in and and remind me that I am obviously not as good at switching off as I think I am.
This past week I have woken every morning around 2.00am (wide awake—bam!) to find my mind running through lists of things that really (really, really) have to be done this week. Because once they are done—there are all these other things that need to be done the week after that . . . and the week after that . . .
‘. . . the festive season is thundering towards me and I have barely given it a moment’s thought . . . the car has to go to the garage on Friday for its MOT . . . got to think about the new term timetable now ‘cos if it’s left until the New Year all hell will break loose . . . I have a house inspection this week, I’d better get go over it once more to keep the rental people happy . . . did I actually transfer those last course results on to that other database, or just think I did? . . . I’ve got to get the brochure away to the printers at the end of next week . . . Marg’s puppy is coming to stay with us for the weekend (shhhh, I haven’t told the girls yet) . . . what the hell am I going to write for this week’s blog . . . ‘
You know, that kind of thing. Sigh.
Of course I am no different to anyone else and, if I am perfectly honest, my life is undoubtedly much less complicated and a lot less busy than many others—but there you are. It’s not their brains keeping me up at night, it’s mine. It’s not as if I can do all that much about it either (short of getting really really good at meditation in a hurry and that seems unlikely) and I do know that all these ‘things-that-need-to-be-done-right-now’ will eventually resolve themselves in due course. They always do. (In other words, suck it up and ride it out Sal.)
But you know, in spite of knowing all that—sometimes . . . just sometimes . . . it does a body a world of good just to have a bloody good grumble about it anyway . . .