I know this feeling: the heart jumping through my through and punching my teeth; the legs twitching in a frantic kind of dance; the impulse to check my emails every 5 minutes.
It’s the worst kind of affliction I could have ever foreseen.
I am busy.
Well, who isn’t busy?
“I have absolutely so much time in the world,” said absolutely no one, ever.
I used to hate that particular sort of workaholic: the one who cancelled on you five times in a row because they forgot their partner’s aunty’s birthday/yoga class/work colleague’s farewell drinks, and they’re like so, soooooo sorry, but could they please take a raincheck? Their schedule is full to the brim with tasks that have been reshuffled five times over, a scattered mess of crossed out items and scribbling outside the lines.
And now, I am that person.
I’m the kind of girl who aches for a day off, but when I do get that time, I feel dismantled. I thrive on adrenaline and deadlines, just like those frantic, eternally busy messes I used to laugh about….Ok, I used to smirk about. I felt pious not overloading myself. And now, I can see people smirking at me. I’m the type of person that waiters hate: I’m glued to my laptop for three hours, hogging the wifi, and I’ll only order one thing.
There is a woman at a café I frequent who says hello by tapping on my computer screen, and laughing wildly.
Becoming busy doesn’t happen over night. It happens gradually, and then suddenly. An extra ‘urgent’ project here, another tight deadline there, and then you still have to remember to exercise and have sex and see your friends and feed the cats.
Won’t anyone think of the cats?
And now, I’m working hard on not being too busy.
So excuse me: I need to go answer some emails on the toilet while eating my salad.