Calendars--I hate them!

I hate my calendar. I remember a time years ago when one day, one week, one month was all the same as another, except maybe Sunday when I went to church. Up to my eyeballs in diapers, toddlers, toys, cooking, cleaning, nothing much happened that needed a calendar.

Now I’m a slave to the blasted thing, keep two calendars which I don’t always remember to synchronize, and have to plan eons out to find blank space.

Example—yesterday a friend called me—“Wanna go to the writing festival with me this summer. June 10-14. We could share a room.” Yes, yes yes!! I have been thinking about going to that thing for several years. So I went on-line, found the choices, agonized between “the novel,”: “The novel as craft” and “Metaphors.” Finally I decided on Metaphors, although the Memoir class was taught by someone whose book I really loved—Barbara Robinet Moss. OK, before you send in your $500, better check the calendar, just to be sure. And wouldn’t you know, right in the middle of the week, on Wednesday afternoon, I have a one-hour commitment at work. ONE HOUR! Get out of it? Probably not wise. Trouble is, they said, “You did such a nice job on this last year we want you to do it again,” and I agreed already. Damn!!

I also want to do RAGBRAI—all of it. But again up jumps the calendar. On Thursday of that week, scheduled last fall, is another one-hour speaking engagement. One lousy hour (that took someone a lot of work to arrange.) So maybe I will do some RAGBRAI, but not a whole, carefree (no doubt miserably hot and painful, but really, who cares?) week.

I could just take a week off and write. Yes I could. Yes I could. I could. I might. I …

Calendars—I hate them!