A blog about being too busy to blog

The irony of writing a blog, about being too busy to write a blog, doesn’t escape me. But it’s true; I am too busy these days. If the business of being busy is a disease… then I’m RIDDLED with it. This disease stops me from doing the things I love the most; including waffling these blogs out on a regular basis.

As I pelted along the road to work the other day, sweat gathering attractively on my top lip, eyes darting around on the lookout for speed cameras; one clear thought popped into my brain amidst all the other crap fighting for space: if I died today; my last thought would be ‘I wish I’d stopped trying to do absolutely everything and just chilled the fuck out.’

I feel like I spend half my life patting myself down in the style of a vigorous airport security search, hunting for my keys/phone/purse before I fly out of the front door. More often than not I’ll get to the roundabout down the road and realise I’ve left said front door open and have to drive back (don’t tell Rob). Arriving at work my cortisol levels drop a little bit but at least once an hour I get the dreaded feeling that I’ve forgotten something… what can it be? I definitely set the washing machine off, I definitely handed those forms into the school office, I definitely made Ellis’s packed lunch… Hmm… Ellis…

OH MY GOD ELLIS! I’ve left him in the car outside the office!

(Jokes. Haven’t really done that. Yet.)

I know this is not just my problem. It’s an epidemic. We’ve all joined the cult of being busy. Because if we’re not busy, then we mustn’t be very important. But it’s bullshit isn’t it? Because nothing could be more important than just appreciating the moment, enjoying time with our kids/friends/family. And that statement in itself is just a different kind of bullshit! Another stick with which we can beat our tired asses.

There is so much pressure out there through social media to be so very grateful for every #blessing in our lives. And I am. We are aren’t we? But isn’t it also really cathartic to have a good old rant about how we are FRAZZLED OFF OUR TITS!? Ranting is therapy – we feel so much better knowing that we’re all in the same (perpetually leaky) boat.

I teach Pilates to a group of amazing older women (not my main job you understand; just something else to add into my week to help me feel extra busy and important). They make me belly laugh and their commitment to core stability and abdominal definition well into their 60’s and 70’s is nothing short of inspiring. Anyway, they’re always telling me that right now, when my children are young, is the best time of my life. That I should cherish it because one of these days I’ll turn around and they’ll be grown-up and gone. One of my favourites; Valerie, sent me an email one day after hearing one of these conversations. ‘What a load of shite they’re talking’ she wrote, ‘Best days of your life are when you’re retired. I had four kids Sarah and I didn’t know me arse from me elbow for 10 years.’

I bloody love Val.

You see the problem is, in my rational mind I know how I should tackle this. I know I should stop trying to keep nine different social circles going (because I want to be a good friend who doesn’t just disappear because she’s got shitloads of kids). I know I should be more zen and mindful. I should stop frantically writing lists in my iPhone notes and do some meditation… but I don’t have TIME for any of that (and deep down I suspect meditation is for wankers. There; I’ve said it). So what’s the answer?

For now, I’ve decided I’m going to do less juggling and start dropping some balls every now and again. I’m reading a brilliant book called ‘The Life Changing Magic of Not Giving a Fuck.’ It’s making me realise that I give too many of my fucks to things which will almost certainly not matter in a week, let alone a month or a year.

Apparently all I need to do is make a list of things I don’t want to ‘give my fucks to’. Top of the list is ‘thirty-six-year-old-face-maintenance’ (that’s an actual thing), closely followed by household chores. Poor Rob; he can look forward to an unwashed, unkempt wife, a manky house and lots of microwave dinners… But imagine how happy we’ll be when we’re less busy babes?

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