I can remember complaining that there simply weren’t enough days in the week to get all the stuff I needed get done, done. I wished that each day was longer, and the work week had more days to it. I wanted a twelve-hour workday and a ten-day work week and a three-day break at the end. That would be preferred, I thought. That way I could get everything done and take a break when it was over.
Wow, have times changed, or maybe I’ve changed. Maybe it’s age or wisdom, but I don’t feel the same way about work anymore. I usually charge out of bed on Monday morning with a to-do list that I made Sunday evening. I hit the list hard Monday and Tuesday, adding things to it along the way. By Wednesday I can feel my energy beginning to fade. I’m watching dumb TV at night rather than reading. Thursday morning, I try to get a few simple things done because I know that by lunch on Thursday is about the last time I’ll be productive that week. Friday, I make a show of it. I leave the easy items on my to-do list for Friday so I can feel like I’ve done something as I check them off and by lunch on Friday, I’m cooked. My brain is fried. I’m tired. Nothing more will get done until my list making begins again on Sunday.
At my gym, one of the trainers asked if I wanted to join her workout at 5:30pm on Fridays. It caught me off guard. I laughed a little and told her that by 5:30pm on Friday I’m useless and beginning a workout at that time on a Friday was out of my world of possibilities. I’m more likely to be having a beer with friends or in a ball on the couch, beaten to death by the work week. An organized workout is nowhere near being on my radar. The trainer is young. She looked confused. I didn’t even try to explain.
I’m beginning to appreciate dentists’ hours more and more. My dentist begins reminding me of an upcoming appointment about six weeks out with a barrage of texts and automated voice mails, nearly threatening me to not miss my appointment. The dentist also attaches emotions to their message, as if missing or having to reschedule will hurt their feelings. I feel ashamed and like I’ve let them down if I have to reschedule. When I arrive, I see they pack their patients into the workweek so that they can take half a day off on Wednesday and a whole day off on Friday. His office is a spinning carousel of open mouths and teeth, and the dentist is on the move from patient to patient but call him in the afternoon on Wednesday or on Friday, and you’ll get the answering machine. He’s gone. So is his team, but my phone is still buzzing with automated messages telling me about my upcoming appointment and how they’ll be heartbroken and maybe even cry a little if I can’t make it.
However, by the time Friday rolls around, I think my dentist and I are living the same dream. He’s locked his office door, and I’m shutting down my brain. He’s earned his day off, and I’ve earned the right to stare at nothing for a while. Maybe that’s how grown-ups measure success — not by how much we get done, but by how guilt-free we can be when we finally stop trying.
I’m Cam Marston, and I’m just trying to keep it real.
