Afternoons are never my good time.
If I haven’t been a steady beaver working on projects, accomplishing, I wonder where the day has gone. Looking around at 4:15 pm, my messy house remains complete with empty wrappers, boxes, jars and clean and dirty dishes on the counters and sink.
A leaky roof, tricky tree roots growing underneath fence lines and concrete, a new door, a broken porch light and a temperamental 1920’s boiler all need tending.
Keeping everything organized, neat and running is a unending adult battle that I, stuck in a kind of teenage vortex, rarely win.
I am highly irritated that growing up is some kind of requirement–that sticking your face into a cake and then licking your fingers without worrying about the mess or calories is unacceptable–and thus fight the process every step of the way.
How do other people embrace growing up so well and figure all of this out?
Instead, I want to so badly to blossom into a billionaire child genius of genuinely positive feelings, candlelight dreams and fully rounded laughter for the ages.