Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I need thirty-hour days to get everything done and still enjoy life, and I think maybe it’s a function of my age.

Time was when I could work long hours on a given project and still have enough energy left at night to read half a book or watch a couple television shows or even clean my kitchen. But no more. Now I can hardly keep on top of the daily grind, much less get ahead of the weekly chores.

Maybe it’s because I have more to do, and in some respects this is true. I still work part-time as a serious consultant, and I manage not only a huge house but also Earl’s and my rental properties. I still am involved in Earl’s other projects to some extent and I want to read, walk outside, garden, play piano, and write every single day. I also iron everything I wear. It’s a tall order to keep up.

But maybe I need thirty-hour days because I’m also slower at doing things. Which makes me wonder if my body is slowing down or if I am becoming more bucolic, more interested in enjoying what I’m doing while I’m doing it? It’s not just about the achieving any more, although that is still important; it’s about finding satisfaction at the end of the day for those things I chose to spend my time on.