Do you ever feel like there’s just too much to do and that you’ll never get it all done?
I feel like that every day.
And I hate it.
I can’t ever seem to relax. Just relax.
I can’t seem to not worry about the laundry piling up, or the slipcover that needs to be straightened every single day, or the pet hair that shows up in every corner of every room, or the emails I need to return, or the pile of magazines I need to go through, or the scrapbook for Devin that I STILL need to start (oh, forget it…I’m going to have to go with an online photobook if I can even handle that!), or the checkbook that I need to rebalance because it was $3 off, or the desk in my office that’s piled with crap that needs to be cleaned off AGAIN, or the weeds that are undoubtedly in my garden because I never have time to keep up on them, or…EVERYTHING.
There’s so much more. I’m constantly fidgeting and anxious because my life feels so undone. As Devin eats breakfast in the morning, instead of sitting and relaxing and talking with him, I feel the need to clean the counters and the stove and empty the dishwasher (although I get points for carrying on a conversation with him and stopping periodically to look him in the eye and tell him I love him).
The anxiousness has lately, though, turned into something akin to anger. I feel snappish. I also feel as if I pretty much find something about nearly every person I encounter that rubs me the wrong way. Talk about your walking prickly pear. That’s me at this moment.
My husband has encouraged me over the years with this lovely and well-meant platitude, “I’ve got two words for you: RE LAX.” Urgh. I wish I could. I know I need to. Sometimes I can feel the blood rushing through my head, throbbing near my temples. I can feel my breath coming faster. I can feel my stomach churning. I know it’s not good for me to get so darn worked up over the seemingly little things in life.
I’m just not sure of what to do about it. A massage would certainly be a welcome short-term fix. But I think I need some serious organization skills. And perhaps a healthy dose of “Who the hell cares?” syndrome. Something. Anything. Bahhhhh!
(Oh, and that magazine Real Simple? It’s just cluttering my life with more advice than I can handle. Seriously. They want to simplify my life, but they require me to save all the damn articles in order to do it. Where am I supposed to put them? How am I supposed to remember all that crap? I think I’m going to cancel my subscription and go back to being Really Not Simple.)