Falling Behind, Getting Ahead

I'm leaving my calendar up (on the right, in case the red dots lining across this week haven't already caught your attention), even though its colors are rather depressing.

I was surviving through NaNoWriMo. But then I had papers. And more papers, and I was flying out of town on Wednesday, so I needed to get all of those papers back. And pack. And make lists of houses to see in Georgia. And set up appointments for dentists and doctors and optometrists right after Thanksgiving so the kids were all set before we moved.

And I got a cold. (Of COURSE I got a cold! How could I possibly NOT get a cold? I've hardly slept since the semester began.)

But now I'm sitting in my hotel room, with nothing to do except write (and cough and sniffle). And I visit my NaNoWriMo page, knowing it's bad, knowing I haven't written in several days, and I was already behind.

Only it's worse. I'm behind by more that 11,000 words, and at this rate, the stats tell me, I'll finish on December 17. Yikes!

Now what do I do? Give up? Go down to the lobby and eat a bunch of free cookies? Walk out to the highway and get myself hit by a trucker? Go over to the Wal-Mart and apply to be a people greeter, since my writing career is obviously not going to happen?

Nope. I'm going to write. Deadlines, schmeadlines, I've got to write. And write and write and write. Not to keep the red from showing up, but because I'm a writer. Yup, I'm not a people greeter, I'm a writer. And writer's write.

See you December 17! (Just kidding. I'm sure I'll be done by the 15th at least!)

The Art of Putting One's Shoes On

I cannot remember the first time I dreamed I was at school while barefoot. Third grade, perhaps? Not only was I walking along the sidewalk without shoes and socks, but I usually sported a silky pair of pajamas. Never naked. Nope, too prudish for that. But my feet were naked.

Shoes are interesting things. No pair is truly comfortable, but without shoes, feet are often less comfortable, especially sensitive feet like mine. I remember how my little sister used to run flat out along our grandmother's gravel driveway, chucking huge white rocks behind her as she sped. I, the sensitive-footed, tiptoed along the driveway, in utter pain, amazed that she didn't seem to feel a thing. I adored shoes, for they allowed me the only means to run with impunity, no matter the terrain.

Kids and shoes are an odd combination. The little boy I watched all last year loved his green alligator galoshes, so he wore them pretty much every day. Shorts + galoshes. Snowsuit + galoshes. Church clothes + galoshes. Such a sweet boy, too, unless you tried to get him to wear something besides galoshes.

Kids go through the "Wrong Feet" stage with shoes, usually by the time they can put the shoes on. Both of my children placed their feet in the wrong shoes from 2 to 5 years of age, so that the toes poked awkwardly in strange directions. I could always tell, too. I'd fix the problem, only for the children to remove the shoes and place them back on the "right" feet.

"Aren't you uncomfortable?" I'd ask.

Their only answer? A weird, quizzical stare back. Of course they were comfortable.

But why am I talking all about shoes? Because my hectic Monday has given me a well-deserved treat. I tested my daughter on spelling, helped with several worksheets, nagged my way around the house, and rushed my kids to school this morning. Then, as I walked from my car into my own college building, I realized that one of my feet was making more noise than the other.

Why was I walking harder on one foot than the other? I tried to compensate. Nope, still louder. That foot felt weird, too. It didn't feel as comfortable. Was it swollen? Was the sock inside twisted?

I finally stopped and looked down. My foot was not the problem. It was my boots.

One black, with a square toe. One brown, with a rounded toe and a seam running down the middle. I'd put on one shoe each from two different pairs of boots.

All these years, and I still haven't learned to put my shoes on properly.

Worst Case Scenario

I woke with a quote from a movie in my head: "What's the worst that could happen?" -- a line spoken by a spiritual leader in a sort of fluffy movie called The Jewel of the Nile. Why the line? Perhaps it's because I have shifted towards my doomsayer's mentality again. When my life is in limbo--when I am unsure of the future, whether job prospects, financial situations, schooling, etc.--I tend to imagine all sorts of awful possibilities. And yesterday was no exception. 

I have several possible job prospects right now, but none are guaranteed except a single class in the fall. If that is all I teach, I will have lots of free time but very little income. However, if all the other job possibilities come through, I may be teaching upwards of seven classes (or even more!), work for FOUR different schools, and be too busy to pee more than twice a day (and for me, with my tiny bladder, that would be a frightening prospect). 

So, now the spiritual guide within me speaks: "What is the worst that could happen?" And I immediately settle down. The worst? I would be very busy. So busy I'd have to hire a housekeeper (hurray!). But this busy pattern would last, at most, a semester. By mid-December I would have planned out which schools I would keep, which I would drop, and I and my life would return to balance (and more frequent bathroom breaks). 

My kids would not have as much fun, and Richard would find himself having to make up for my deficiencies (something that would do him a lot of good). He'd have to make a few dinners a week, watch a little less football, and otherwise remain more attentive to the kids than usual. Then again, if I take the kids to the YMCA (a place they LOVE) I can still grade papers in the lobby... and they can still have fun while being safely monitored. All of us would enjoy that break.

My kids would have to become more independent. Crystal could put lunches together in the morning. Brandon would need to get himself dressed without nagging or he'd miss the bus entirely. They'd have more time for homework, with us all sitting at the dinner table working for a few hours (me included). 

Honestly, when I think it through and put it into precise images, it doesn't sound as bad as my nightmares. And that is what helps. If the worst isn't so bad, I think I can handle it. I have used this before with my writing. I consider what happens if I never become a published writer, if all this work I do on plays, novels, and other writings never brings in any money, or never reaches a wider audience. What's the worst that can happen? 

In fifty years, when I am old and bent over, I'll look back and see that I spent decades upon decades doing something I loved, and even if it never brought in much, it was fulfilling work nonetheless. I cherish the time I have spent writing. It has brought me joy, no matter whether it brings me anything else. The rest would only be gravy.

So, what do you fear? What's the worst that could happen?