Sitting in a conference room. There are six other laptops open, schedule planners, and cell phones strewn about. A variety of multicolored pens congregate in pairs of two near each place setting. It's as if a fire alarm went off and I'm the only one remaining.
This is the aftermath of a five hour scheduling session, and we are 90% done, at least for the moment. As months change and details unravel, there is bound to be some rearranging, but for now I'm finding comfort in having something to hang onto, if even for a moment. This is the only predictability I have, detailed in pencil in the confines of my zebra patterned datebook.
Take, for instance, if I was to be asked out on a hot date on October 23rd, I would have to decline, as I will be driving to Kentucky which will likely take me all day. If you were looking for a souvenir from, say, Atlanta, Georgia- a gold blingin' Jesus chain perhaps- I could tell you that it would be June 26th at the earliest that I could get something with postage, and you probably wouldn't see it til the following Monday, the 29th. Earliest.
Holidays? Obliterated. Weekends? Booked. Vacation? The typical vacation identity has completely reversed itself to collapsing into an overstuffed couch with an ample amount of tea and a fair Marx brother's stock. Days that don't involve sunburn. I'm going on vacation, starting Friday, my paradise an iced over cityscape surrounded in greying snow. Home sweet home.
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