… ya don’t.
I’ve been deadlining the past couple of weeks and have about a week and a half to go. The work is going well, but doing a number of small projects at once crowds my brain. I’m also going gangbusters on house projects in my spare time. (Ah, spring! It brings out the constructive insanity in a body.)
All that’s to the good, and life is dandy fine. Don’t get me wrong.
But the last few days have also brought a steady stream of itty-bitty time-wasters and irritations. Not one is of the slightest importance by itself, but you know how it goes. After a few days of having the cat wake you up at 3:00 a.m., losing your Internet service repeatedly, having a dog vomit on your shoes just when you’ve almost gotten that idea you’ve been struggling with, answering too many phone calls, and trying to replace a defective (yes, you warned me) car part for something less than the cost of the federal debt … well, today I feel like a) crying, b) kicking a dog (any old dog), or c) taking up chemical abuse.
I’ll do none of the above, of course. But I figured I owed you an explanation for my lack of brilliance and productivity.
There. Having gotten that out of my system, I’ll probably think of something just devastatingly witty and insightful for tomorrow.
Uh … but don’t count on it, okay?
It’s times like these that I wish I had a wife … a nice “helpmeet” to prepare healthy meals, take care of the pesky details, and ensure that the world is kept away while I capital-C Create. Or a gloriously efficient and nearly silent assistant who could just Handle It All. Not that I’m comparing myself favorably to the greats (what nerve), but I’m very darned sure that Michelangelo couldn’t have been Michelangelo and Shakespeare wouldn’t have been able to write Shakespeare if they had to wait for the Internet repairman, cook their own meals, or worry that the library lost the book they absolutely knew they had already returned.
Heck, forget the greats. Even the mediocres need mental space to create. I’m pretty sure Thomas Kinkade couldn’t have painted all that glurge and John Grisham couldn’t have written all those potboilers if they didn’t have somebody else taking care of life’s little necessities for them.