I'm happiest when I have too much to do.
Tomorrow is a housewarming brunch for a friend, so I overextend myself and plan both a quiche with ham and an Eggs Florentine casserole for the non-carniverous. I have no time to make either. I squeeze it in regardless. I will wake, I will prepare, I will bake.
Another friend had her first solo show today, wrangling chords from her guitar and sweet vibrato from the chapel of her throat. I had no time to attend, but I was there anyway. There is a distinct pleasure in taking a cab when I know that I could walk - but as they say, time was of the essence.
More friends had a gathering in Westchester. The ringleader is housesitting, a cavern of a home, a strange amalgam of southwestern and Scandinavian themes. Clean, straight, unadorned lines, picked out against the skyline in adobe. Ikea meets Santa Fe. I had no time to join them, but again a cab rescued me, delivered me to the embrace of a northbound train, just in time to pull away in a hiss and a clatter of bells.
My dearest friend has a problem - a rebellion of the heart, an opening of the eyes, in which she sees her girl in a new light. One adult, yearning for grown-up things; the other, an adult trapped in childish reverie. Amidst everything else I do, I had no time to talk. I wait until Sunday afternoon, when at last a break in my schedule will allow me to listen. My guilt gnaws.
Perhaps having too much to do can stifle as much as it can exhilarate.