Most mornings I wake up with some kind of energy. And the kitten playing pat-a-cake on my face.
I could use this energy to prepare and cook dinner from scratch with exotic ingredients, meet up with long-neglected friends, catch up on my emails, try out a new must-visit cafe in town, browse around a second-hand book-shop and schlep around Ikea.
All finished off with a cocktail served in a jam-jar in some dark, obscure wine bar.
Sadly, life doesn’t work like that. My ever-so-limited energy is always in the morning, my slump is post-2pm. Just ask the boss. He can set his watch by me as I stumble around, packing away my lunch box and folding my newspaper, yawning conspicuously.
As soon as I wake up, it’s as if a little switch is flipped; time starts ticking away and I race pointlessly against it.
Reverse my ideal day back to reality and I will throw together a quick dinner (fish fingers, spag bol, fish fingers, Dominos), neglect my friends, feel guilty about my emails, never visit that new cafe (probably closed down by the time I even think about going), order books online and dream of a double serving of meatballs in the Ikea cafe. All finished off with a cup of tea and a nice sit down on my sofa.
Over my morning coffee, after feeding and depositing the kitten outside, I scan my to-do lists (plural). Yup, can do that, tick. Ok, can do that, tick. Put some laundry in, pack six pieces of fruit in Teenager’s school bag (lol), take out recycling. I have a Plan for After-Work.
After Work, I get home, feed and deposit the kitten outside, slump, scan to-do lists, laugh ironically and feel a little bit pathetic. I weigh up fish fingers versus spag bol. I change the loo roll and feel mightily proactive. I sit at my kitchen table and hoover in a circle around me, wishing I could move a little further.
So many hours and so little energy to fill them with. I watch the clouds pass by from my sofa-vantage-point. Pretty. I am being Mindful. I pick up and put down a book (it’s more than 200 pages). Flick through a magazine. Too much information. Turn on the telly. Pat the cat. Shout upstairs, telling The Teenager to turn down his music. Wonder what that odd smell is. Burning fish fingers and I haven’t even put the beans on yet.
For now, my days continue to be upside-down. Do you think it would be odd to host a dinner party at 9.30am? (Asking for a friend).