My days slipped into a routine
without me even noticing it. I hog the bed as soon as David starts his morning
ritual. By the time he heads out the door, I sit at my laptop to check out
morning status posts, cute animal pictures, game requests, and jokes. I head
over to check my email and peruse the news. Usually I multitask, running
clothes through the washer and shifting them to the dryer when I return letters
or write a blog post. By 9 AM, the dogs and I head for the back yard. Koi
viciously snarls and snaps at the hose, tugging with all of his might to “help”
me unwind this coiled snake. I slowly water each bush and hanging basket, all
the while yearning for the blessing of rain upon our scorched world.
By the time I reenter the house, the
laundry’s dry. I hang, and fold, and put everything neatly away. Then I tackle
another small chore—put away the clean dishes stacked so neatly in the
dishwasher, vacuum and mop the floors, dust off the find layer that’s settled
onto the furniture since the previous week, scrub the tubs and toilets. No
matter what the task, I usually finish between 10:30 and 11:00.
So I pull my hair back into a
ponytail, don my Skechers, and head for the gym. Determined to regain my life,
I push through thirty minutes of aerobics and another thirty minutes of
weights. I mentally mark off the day of the week—Monday, Wednesday, Friday
dedicated to upper body. Tuesdays and Thursdays focused on lower body. Weekly
weigh-ins show no weight loss, but the tape measure’s become my best
friend. I’ve honed almost eighteen inches off of during the last three months.
Each half-inch shift gives me the push to head back to the cross trainer. Logic
tells me that I spent a decade taking care of someone else, and I should allow
myself time to regain my physical endurance. I arrive home sweating like a pig.
No delicate “perspiration” for me! A quick soak to stretch out my muscles, and
then the rest of the day remains open.
And so I find myself with plenty of
time, practically for the first time ever, to do anything I want (within
budgetary reason). Some days, I’ll pick something on Netflix and do a marathon
television session. Other days, the TV sits silent all day while I catch up on
reading all of the books my favorite authors published over the last four years
when Mom’s care shoved reading into an occasional luxury. I’ve even constructed
a list of projects to do around the house—like painting the kitchen. Writing,
the one thing I clung to tenaciously as HD demolished my mother, now shifts to
a leisurely pleasure.
Yesterday, I began researching some
of those little details writers place into books. My curiosity queried on how
long a horse can trot pulling a wagon, and how many miles per hour it would go.
I needed to know what courses a nurse took going to John Sealy Hospital School
of Nurses in the early 1900s. I spent my afternoon with Google and Bing (sounds
like a vaudeville act).
I find great pleasure in
discovering the miracle of having plenty of time. I think I’ll luxuriate in it
(and maybe brag about it) for quite a while.
Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
