Skip to main content

Let Me Count the Days

It used to be I defined my days into two groups - work days, weekends. Easy. I remember the joy of Fridays, the depression setting in by Sunday night, that Monday morning feeling of dragging myself out of bed to start a new day. It was a long time ago that I had a traditional "job" - nine to five, what a way to make a living. Not that I didn't like what I did because I did. My work as a psychotherapist, especially when I was quite young and worked in the prison system, was fascinating, sometimes rewarding, on a few occasions downright scary...But I digress. My point here is that I was well-grounded in the days of the week. I never had to stop and think, what day is this? There was a rhythm to the days, they rose and fell like a graph on a chart.

But then I started my writing career quite a few years back and the days of the week got a bit jumbled. I didn't write on a 9 to 5 schedule. I didn't have a specific rhythm. I didn't have the pressure of a boss, except for deadlines to publishers. For the most part I lost track of my days. There was something disorienting about that but also something freeing. Any day could be a cheery Friday for me or a draggy Monday. Weekends, weekdays, they mushed together and that was fine.

Now, I'm once again acutely aware of which day of the week it is. No, I didn't get a "job". I didn't stop writing (obviously). And it's not that my week days are particularly different from my weekends as far as my personal life is concerned. It's all about this long, narrow plastic container with flip lids - seven flip lids to be exact. And there's a day of the week printed on every one of them going from Sunday through Saturday. Seven daily little sections that hold the pills I now take so that I stay healthy and hopefully get to do all the things I still want to do with my life. So my pills are my friends. They help my body and my mind. I have nothing against them, really I don't. But now every time Friday rolls around and I empty those Friday pills into the palm of my hand and I see that there are only Saturday's pills left before the pill box is refilled with next week's pills, it somehow feels like time is passing by too quickly. You take the pills to hopefully live longer and healthier and when the week's pills are almost gone in what seems a flash, you know another week of your life has fled by.

It's a real conundrum.


Popular posts from this blog

My friend asked me to pose nude for her...

The other day C. called. She has always been an avid photographer and she's really good. I have one of her photos on my wall. Anyway, she told me she was going off for a weekend course in how to photograph people in the nude. Older people. In particular, older women. I waited. I didn't have to wait long. I had my "no" at the ready. When she did ask me if I would pose for her I thought it would be rude to just say "no." What I did say was that the day I can get dressed facing the mirror rather than with my back to it, I would consider it. Notice, I was careful not to say anything definitive. Here's the thing. Like plenty of you out there I have a hang-up about my body. It's not a bad body, especially given that it's an older body. And I'm not going to list the various parts of my body that I particularly have a hang-up about because...well, it would be a long, boring and familiar list. But I really wanted to show my support for C.'s

Thank God you can pick your friends!

My husband and I are about to celebrate the 50th wedding anniversary of very special friends. We met Ted and Deanna 36 years ago and we've stayed strongly connected through a number of moves (ours not theirs), illnesses, life's many ups and downs. We've shared sad times and joyous times. We've traveled together, spent wonderful visits at each others' homes. I'm sure we must have shared thousands of meals together. Thousands of laughs. They've always, ALWAYS been there for us and we have always tried to be there for them. History. We have a deep and meaningful shared history. J. and I are  truly blessed to have a wonderful group of close friends and we value them all. But there are very few couples I've known and loved longer than this very special couple. You can't pick your blood relatives but thank God you can pick your friends. From the very first time we all met, J and I picked them. We were couples with young families. We were in the first dec

You can take the girl out of The Bronx, but...

Well, you know the rest. I have to confess for a long time I really tried to get rid of The Bronx. For a long time after that I thought I had. And for a long time I felt good about it. I'd escaped. No one could tell by my speech, my look, my style, etc. I used to love to hear, "You're from The Bronx? I'd never have guessed." And it's more than that. It's escaping a past that didn't fit in with my fantasy of who I wanted to become, who I wanted to be. It was an escape from a certain social class, an escape from parents whose customs, manners, interests felt alien to me - or maybe the truth was I wanted them to feel alien to me. I wanted to be my own creation!  But deep down I knew the truth. I knew it and it bothered me. I felt like there was really no escape. Not from The Bronx. Not from the lower income class that shaped me. Not from a mother who loved a bargain more than almost anything. And it bothered me. But lately something has changed. It&