What Do We Do With The Time?

What do we do with the time?

Logging into my little collection of thoughts here, after a month whirlwind of work, catch up work time and more catch up work time, a strange little box greeted me from the right hand corner of my wordpress dashboard.

“Quick Press” it claimed its name to be.

Quick posting, for those (word)pressed for time, I assume.

Who isn’t?

However, keeping in mind I’m antsy with trepidation, at most, when there is unexpected change around me, I’m still reluctantly dipping my cyber pen toe into this little box here, dizzy with the prospect of the shovelfuls of time I’m saving in doing so, in lieu of moving my finger an inch across the mousepad, to click on the “new post” tab, that has previously served me so well.

Time, time! Oh glorious time!

Even now as I type these words that may never make it to digitally published print, I’m greedy at the thought of the minutes and hours ahead that I’ve saved and just what I may do with them.

Pay my bills, maybe… or finish that report that seems to keep finding itself at the end of the pile, even though it’s of utmost importance. And when that’s done, it’s time the carpet became reacquainted with the vacuum cleaner, and some of my clothes with the washer.

Hmm.

Makes me want to say… Fuck You WordPress!! Keep your precious time!!

But you know, in a more graceful, ladylike manner.

“Please do excuse me while I politely ram a 2B pencil up your behind, Mr WordPress as a symbol of my utmost appreciation of your gift of time”… or something similar.

I’m nothing if not grateful.

But really, consider the amount of time you’ve spent acclimatizing to things designed to save you time… no really, how much time have you wasted rifling around in your Bookmarks for that one special video clip, when all you had to do was go that extra step to google and search “+midget donkey wd40 youporn”?? … erm, you know, hypothetically speaking, I wasn’t snooping around on your PC *smiles sweetly*

Not to mention automated this, shortcutted that, monotone recorded voices reading back 100 digit receipt numbers … which, other than further hermitifying the truly antisocial among us, do bad things to my blood pressure each time I have to practice my reading out of my Visa number in my non accent.

And for what?

I can’t think of anything I’ve done in the last day, month, year, that was a direct result of the extra time I had on my hands. I know I did something…I must’ve, I just wish I knew what it was, I wish it was something that made me proud, something that made me look upon my life with achievement. I wish it was highlighted with a great big neon sign, a flashing arrow pointing, “You did this. You rock. Just for that, I’m rewarded you with more time!”

So, maybe it’s time to live a little less… for a purpose, but a little more…purposefully.

There’s a difference.

At 3:37am Sunday morning, and 11 tequila shots down, I couldn’t tell you what that is, but I know what it is.

I think …

It’s trying a little more, while being a little less trying (this may apply to a chosen few, to whom I’m a little more difficult, than others).
It’s trying to forget a little more of what has gone by… while being a little less forgetful of the things that will smooth out the path for the future.
It’s a little less time being so insanely obsessed with trying to find out who “me” is …and a little more time just BEING me.
It’s a little less being worried about having to be okay all the time, and a little more time realizing, everything will be okay.
It’s being a little more in the moment… and a little less…trying to make moments.

*smiles*

It’s a little less time spent making excuses for not writing, and a little more writing.

Even midnight drunken ramblings.

You may cheer.

Unless it’s Sunday mid morning my time, at which time I will be firmly entrenched in spending a little time becoming re-acquainted with my bathroom tile, and prayer.

*grins*

I guess I just want to know, I’ve done something with my time.

I used to be in charge of juicing the batches of blood oranges that grew outside my bedroom window, because I’d refuse to throw out the orange halves until I’d wrung out every last drop, my fingertips drenched in the blood red juice, as the peel lay tattered and torn in my hands.

*pours you a glass of orange juice and adds a drop of cointreau, and lift my glass*

Here’s to being tattered and torn, and wringing out every last drop.

Now…if only I could find the submit button thingo.

Dear WordPress,
Try spending the time you save on that time-saving thing,  making your interface a little more drunk friendly.

Xo,
Your friendly drunk.

~ by libertiness on February 21, 2009.