Change this leopard's spots

Oh, y'all. I wish I were an extrovert.

So many awesome things are happening! We opened a great show. We partnered with a fantastic organization on a beautiful evening of Wagner, Bartok & Mahler. We've opened and closed an intimate recital, a deconstructed outdoor recital, a lovely gothic retelling of a Poe story with dancers and singers in a warehouse, and a commissioned children's opera for four-year-olds.

IT'S NOT EVEN JULY YET.

It's not like we haven't done this before. (see 2016, 2015...etc...)
I wish I had the presence of mind to get my job done, intersect in a meaningful way with my colleagues and artists, and take care of my home, health and personal relationships.

But in the summer? I'm lucky to get 2 of those agenda items covered at any given time.

I'm trying to be better this summer... to watch my diet and to continue to exercise, to keep a strict to-do list, to be present when people are talking to me. I'd love to say I'm at a 85 or 90% success rate, but honestly I think it's likely a bit lower. I've got some work to do.

So I'll go to bed unreasonably early tonight, to undo some of the late-night damage of the last weeks. I'll plan out my day tomorrow to a ridiculous degree that will make my Monday easier, all the while knowing full well that, later this same week the planning will go completely out the window and I'll be scrambling for a clean shirt or will tear the house apart looking for one of the 5 pairs of shoes that currently reside in the trunk of my car.

It's funny. I used to think that things got easier. I've always wanted to be further along than I am - reaching for sweaters as soon as the calendar turns to September, trying to smash classes in so I could get a diploma faster (never worked for me but not for the lack of trying), trying to rush the next milestone. But now I'm pretty sure that they get...different. The need to put in the time, the effort, the goodwill - that never goes away. I thought that, once I hit a certain numerical age that I could just get comfortable - do less, read more, grow softer and rounder and more invisible. But I'm finding that comfortable - that definition of it - well, I don't actually find it comfortable.  I don't often like the way I feel when I'm indulging or slacking. (Well, I dig the anticipation of it, and the actual act...but hate the aftermath. Turns out that Catholic guilt can manifest itself in all kinds of ways, and I'd rather avoid the guilt than have the fun. Huh, who knew?)

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If the earlier digression hasn't clued you in to the fact that Mama is tired? I'll just say it plain. I'm tired. And I hate the fact that I need so much processing time, when so many things are happening. It's the one time of year that the sensitive introversion thing proves to be a real hangup.

Recharging with a book, a dog walk, and and early bedtime. Hoping your week is off to a strong start!




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