For some years, now (maybe five or six), I have had real issues with the concept of ‘time’.
- Always worry there’s never enough;
- Always worry that I’ve wasted too much;
- Always worry that I might DIE TOMORROW (dark) and never get to do all the things I want to do.
I’ll be honest – this issue has been a real burden for me.It’s arguably one of my biggest sources of anxiety.
However, as with all issues that back you into a corner, you find ways to bat them back with your tiny paws/hands/alien tendrils. There are different ways that I tackle the time-beast. One thing I do, for example, is keep myself occupied with creative tasks – of the writing kind, usually, as practiced on this blog and also with other projects. If I’ve created something, I never feel like time’s been wasted. Problem solved (temporarily)*.
*As a result, I am planning on writing one or two things about ways in which I fight the ‘time’ issue – it helps me to put it down on paper, and I have a feeling that I’m not the only one who grapples with it, either. I want to share what I’ve learned with you if you’re out there reading this. Keep checking back in!
On the same hand (nerding out for a second over writing, bear with) when it comes to expressing anxiety-specific things, I often go one of two ways in the message and tone. I either look at it deeply and retrospectively to try and glean some sense and/or intelligence from the whole debacle OR go completely the other way and make it comic and lighthearted, as this helps provide perspective in concerns to some issues and/or makes a concept that’s once been so scary to me less intimidating. (This article is actually supposed to be funny, believe it or not – I’m getting to that bit.)
I decided, therefore, in regular comic fashion, I would write a post about things I realistically no longer have time to do, to put things in a little perspective. Here we go.
Watch the entire series of Lost
It is simply far too late for me to ever hop onboard this Lost bandwagon. There are just too many series. More episodes than there are people in China (highly accurate estimate). It would take the rest of my life to catch up, and I have other things to do (aka., keep track of other series I am already invested in, such as Catfish and Bloodline). So I consider Lost a lost cause. But at least I get to make that great joke. (…)
2. Become a famous figure skater
Figure skating is the only sport I have ever deemed remotely pretty enough to consider devoting a lot of time to, but as my parents aren’t crazy driven, dictatorial assholes who decided to map out my entire future for me, they didn’t force me to do any sport, figure skating or other, immediately after I popped out of the womb. I spent the first six or seven years of my life wasting my time by enjoying finger painting and licking cookie dough out of the bottom of a bowl, like any other regular small human. As a result, I will never be in the Winter Olympics. Cheers, you loving assholes.
3. Become a famous classical musician
For similar reasons to the above, I will never be a famous classical musician, because my parents didn’t shove a tuba down my throat immediately after I popped out of the womb (sincere apologies for saying that phrase not once, but twice now. If you unsubscribe, I understand). I’ve actually heard that people who become classical musicians have to start training even earlier that ten-minutes-post-birth, and that expecting mothers are required to slide entire flutes and violas down their throat like sword swallowers or ravenous snakes so that their fetus can practice, dripping with sweat and angst, in the uterus, somewhat akin to Miles Teller’s character in Whiplash’s final scene. My mum did not swallow a flute or viola, therefore I am not remotely musically prodigal. Cheers, you loving asshole.
4. Be even just a tad rebellious at school
In my first secondary school, a kid once drove through the wall of the I.T. room in order to steal a bunch of computers. At the same school, I heard that the headteacher paid some kids to attend, because they never did – a rumour which was never confirmed but which I totally believed because it was just that kind of place. AKA, the kind of place where the kids ruled the roost. On my very first day there, a lanky dude with a greasy afro and glazed eyes which I now realise were as such because he was – excuse my French – really fucking high, walked past me and whispered “welcome to Hell” in my ear.
My second secondary school was a little tamer, but not by much. Kids smoked behind the D&T building, people tried to set fire to shit with the bunsen burners in Chemistry and one pupil drove my Home Ec teacher so crazy she apparently “locked her in a cupboard” (while I was actually in this class when this supposedly happened, I spent most of my secondary school existence in some sort of bored stupor, so I can neither confirm nor deny this vicious rumour either. I was staring out the window thinking about Brendon Urie, mostly likely, at the time. A habit I have carried forth into adulthood).
Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I attended two schools during my painful teenage existence in which it would’ve been perfectly acceptable – vanilla even – to be a little more rebellious than I was. I probably would’ve blended in a lot more. Instead, I got super excited when my one-eared English teacher read my stuff aloud in class because he thought it was good and listened patiently while a French teacher I once had, who called herself The Dragon, screamed that we were “the second worst class she had ever had in her life”. (To this day, I wonder who the first worst class was, and am mildly offended that it wasn’t my class, despite the fact I did nothing to contribute to our second-worst status.)
That ship has well and truly sailed. I will never be known as Laura The Destroyer**, or some other cool, rebellious name that kids would have whispered into each other’s ears, wide-eyed, as I sashayed down the corridor with my clique of Regina George’s. That will never be my life. Perhaps I can live it vicariously through my future children, one day, who I will raise to be indomitable bitches (just kidding. They’re probably going to be really well-behaved nerds. Damn genes).
** In case you were wondering, it is now too late for you to call me Laura The Destroyer too, because it is simply too close to a violent prostitute’s name with the context of school rebellion. If I must have a prostitute name, I want it to be something cute like Peachy Highway or my house nickname, French Vanilla.
5. Spend the whole day in bed watching Tom & Jerry
This is something I could’ve easily done as a child, but not anymore. Now, I am too worried about the whole time-wasting thing to do that which, as a child, I fucking loved to do. R.I.P. blissful, wasted days.
6. Get children’s tickets to stuff
Nope. I well and truly can’t do this anymore. Partially because I look too old, and partially because I rarely bother seeing a film that’s rated under 15. In a way, the fact I can’t get away with buying kid’s tickets is ironic because I also get refused entry all the time to adult shit as I look too young. (Where is the lie!?) Basically, I am in some horrible void between not being able to buy a child’s ticket and not being able to get into clubs and bars and stuff without ID. So I’ve been 17 for six years.
This, really, is about about the sum of all that it is officially too late for me to do now. Which is not only quite comforting, it tells me the following:
There is time to do stuff. Lots of time. Stop freaking out. And maybe start watching The Walking Dead again, before it has as many series as Lost and it will be too late for that, too.