They say there are two kinds of people, those who wear a watch, and those who don’t. Me, I don’t wear one. Haven’t for about fifteen years. It’s not because I have “freed myself from the constraints of time” or that “I have tapped into the primal rhythms of the universe” (snort) Or that I have an issue about things around my wrist, or that I have an especially good sense of the passage of time, or that I have so few things to do that I don’t need one. I don’t wear a watch because I have one on my computer. And my oven. And my phone. Outside on my garage wall . . . you get the idea. As a society, we are obsessed with time, whether it be in small increments, or larger.
Sometimes, I can go weeks without looking at my calendar, though, able to juggle what I need to do without looking. There’s a definite pattern to my life. Lately though, I’ve found myself flipping three months ahead, a week, a weekend. Fall tends to be like that as the unfettered and timeless days of summer are pinched down to a bare handful that you can hold in your fist and doll out carefully one by one.
Today, though, there is nothing on my calendar, and though it’s too cold to have the windows open, my office smells like dirt and the sound of water trips through the back recesses of my brain. It’s one of the best days to write in, and I plan on enjoying it.