WHY CAN'T I JUST BE NORMAL?

As I was trying to get my wit (*) about me on Sunday, I kept saying to no one in particular...."You only have three things to do today.  Read the papers. Make pasta fagioli.  Stitch."

(*) And yes, I know that the expression is "get my wits about me", but come on.  This is ME we're talking about.  I am, most definitely, a little short in the whole "wit" department.  Thus...wit singular versus wit plural.

Nine hours later I collapsed into the Happy Chair wondering why I just couldn't be a normal person like everybody else and do things in moderation.  I futzed and cleaned and laundered and flipped and re-filled and polished and swept and scoured and baked and washed and dried and organized and moved and dusted and rinsed and folded and fluffed until I thought I was going to drop.  What was supposed to be a perfectly quiet Sunday turned into a "Hey!  Let's shampoo the furniture and then re-arrange the storage closet in the garage!" kind of day.

Oh well.  At least the house looks and smells nice now.

On Saturday, I also did a little housework, but was so wiped out after about ten minutes of it that I decided to call Aunt Chrissy instead.  This is one of my very favorite procrastinating techniques, since I can usually convince Aunt Chrissy to go for a cheeseburger, or, if the stars are in perfect alignment, head to the Bed Bath and Freakin Beyond for a bunch of crap that we didn't even know we needed.

"I don't understand it", I whined into the phone.  "I used to be able to clean my house from the top to the bottom every single Saturday and then have enough energy to go grocery shopping and out to dinner with my friends afterwards.  What's happened to meeeee?"

"Well, for one thing, you're old now and not twenty two", Aunt Chrissy replied.  "And for another, your "house" is now bigger than a bedspread and consists of more than a crock pot and a twin bed.  Face it, Coni Jo.  Life has moved on, even if you haven't.  It's 2012.  You're 46 and feeble and should be grateful that Stewey and I haven't put you in a lovely "retirement community" by now."

At least that's what the conversation sounded like in my head, anyway.

The truth of the matter is that I was the one that admitted that I'm just not able to keep up like I used to.  This revelation particularly sucks, because once you've gotten yourself used to an OCD perfection of immaculateness, it's hard to let it go and peacefully co-exist with dust bunnies and the occasional puppy nose print.  My surroundings used to look like a surgical theater.  Now, they're more like a crime scene.

Hope is not lost, however, since I am convinced that the only thing I need to do is create a weekly routine that will allow for some easy chores in the morning and a lot of happy stitching in the evenings.  If I'm really good and learn to embrace the whole "no need to dis-assemble the entire refrigerator every four days to clean and disinfect it" approach, I might actually learn to enjoy this new stage of my life.

In the meantime, anybody wanna go for a cheeseburger?