Unmade

Last year, I bought my favorite watch of all time. A man’s watch, it features a large, thin face, thick, brown leather bands, and the word “Fossil”, prominently displayed at the top of the dial.

And, yet…

My life is a rushed blur of missed opportunities, rescheduled appointments, unfinished projects, and tasks that need doing.

There was a time in my life when accepting an invitation to go to a concert meant an evening filled. Now, the offer requires careful calendar manipulation, and the certainty of playing catch-up the following day.

A visit to the hair salon used to be a welcome distraction, breaking up a lazy Saturday afternoon. My last appointment was scheduled, with surgical precision, over a month in advance. I rescheduled twice.

There is a jigsaw puzzle on a table in my office. The box is displayed, prominently, as an aid in connecting the pieces, which lay in a misshapen mound in front of it. Beside the table is an easel, bearing the weight of an unfinished canvas. If you squint, you can almost make out the image of wolves drinking from a stream.

The drawer in my wine cabinet is stuffed full of collected corks. I spent quite a bit of time searching for an appropriately-sized bulletin board on which to glue them. A friend finished hers last year. I saw it. It was cute, and I’m sure mine will be, too, when I get around to it. The glue gun is ready. I am not.

I have never “finished” the laundry. The pile is never-ending, growing faster than it shrinks.

My sewing box runneth over.

The hardwood floors, stripped of carpeting in hopes of easier maintenance, gather mounds of dusty dog hair in their corners, even as I sweep.

The pine trees, shading my house, weep brown needles faster than I can rake them.

I live life, as a perpetually unmade bed.

© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved

http://www.thewriterslife.net