:Time:

My name is Sam, and sometimes, I feel like this.

Really, haven't we all? In fact, I'd be willing to venture a guess that most of us feel this way almost all the time. Before you go arguing with me in your head (or out loud--you really, really, should hold off on arguing with me out loud), think about this with me:

Have you ever, after eight hours of sleep, said to someone (or even to yourself) "I'm still exhausted"?

Have you ever double-booked yourself?

Have you ever had to cancel plans?

Have you ever written out a to-do list?

Have you ever completed said to-do list?

Have you ever complained about how busy you are?

Have you ever said the words: "I need a vacation"?

And on and on and on and on... I don't think that any one of those things by themselves necessarily constitutes being pulled in too many directions, but I'm also fairly certain we've all said many of them at the same time.

But this is my (and many other people's) quandary: we just get so darned busy. There are too many good things, too many interesting events or groups or organizations to be a part of, and there's just not enough time in the day (or week...or month) to accomplish it all or be present (really present) for any of it.

I mean, take me, for example (since I'm not doing an exposé on anyone else, here...). I work 50-55 hours a week at one job, and 10-15/week and another, depending on the time of year. I have a wife and two kids, who I try desperately to be involved with, and extended family and friends to try and remain connected to as well. With all this comes a desire to pursue my interests (writing, reading, photography, etc.), as well as supporting my wife and children as they pursue theirs. Add housework, maintenance, and trying to be a nice guy and help out family and friends from time to time, and there are a lot of things placing demands (real and imagined) on my time. 

Now, I'm not saying that I've necessarily got it bad (who am I to say whether or not you've got it worse?), but I will say this:

In high school, I used to think I had no time to do things.

In college, I realized that I wished I had the kind of time I had in high school...and thought that now, I had no time to do things.

Once I got married, I realized that I wished I had the kind of time I had in college, and that my high-school-self's opinion on time was a joke, and thought that now, surely now, I have no time to do things.

And then I had kids. And wouldn't you know it, kids are time vacuums. They suck up every little piece of remaining time, and then go running around the room, waiting for more. I'm pretty sure Dr. Who could put out an episode where children are somehow devouring the space-time continuum, and interrupting the wibbly-wobbly-timey-wimey-ness of it all, and he has to save humanity from their hungry grasp. And it would probably be legitimately frightening, at least to parents.

So now I realize that, if there is ever a time in your life where you can legitimately think you have no time for things, it's when there are kids in the house.

Except for this: as long as you are still alive, you have time for things. Maybe not the amount of time you want, and maybe not for the exact things, in the exact order, that you want to tackle them... But as long as you are breathing, there is still time to accomplish.

Now, that being said, I would submit that we all still have a LOT to learn when it comes to managing said time, and ensuring we are not allowing ourselves to be pulled too many directions at the same time...

A colleague of mine put it well once: "It's like we're making minimum payments on all our commitments"

That hit me. It was probably the clearest way of putting it that I had ever heard. And it made me realize that I have to find a way to consolidate and strip my schedule down so that I don't simply make minimum payments on my commitments. I need to find ways to be fully present in whatever I am doing, so that the other things aren't bleeding their way into devouring the time I do have for the really important things...things like my family...my wife and kids...

If I'm still breathing, I've still got time. It may not always feel like it, but it's there. Life is a series of moments never lived again. What am I doing with them?

My name is Sam, and sometimes, I feel like this.

:Taxi:

My name is Sam, and even though I have been driving taxi for almost a year an a half, I have never actually taken a taxi anywhere.

So it's not that I can't actually hail a cab. It's just that I am usually the hailee, rather than the hailer. 

And here come the confessions: I wouldn't recommend taxi as an affordable method of transportation--which is why I have always found other means of mobility. I just can't justify the cost. Now, in a pinch, I think I could, or for some special occasion, but not as a general rule.

Which is interesting...my job is to peddle a service I myself am not keen on using. The service itself is great... Just highly costly if used often. In fact, it's actually considered to be a luxury service. As in, along with cable tv and Internet, it's a thing that we technically don't need to be able to afford, but all try to anyway (at least if you're the bar-hopping type). 

Also, when people ask me what I do for fun, and I explain that I play music, and write, and read, and hang out with my family, they don't believe me. They push to find out when I go out partying since I'm driving on the weekends, and, in fact, most nights of the week. I apparently have about the most boring-sounding social scene of many living human being; possibly even more boring than that of some dead humans (at least they get their own tv shows).

So, I work a luxury service job, in a seasonal tourist town, on commission, and have a deadbeat boring social life.

No wonder I can't hail a cab.

My name is Sam, and even though I have been driving taxi for almost a year an a half, I have never actually taken a taxi anywhere.

:Paralysis:

My name is Sam, and I *may* sometimes worry myself into a paralysis when I face big decisions.

Thankfully, when I DID finally pop the question, my wife didn't sit there, rolling her eyes, wondering what took me so long. 

*audible sigh of relief*

But I DO tend toward a paralyzing fear of rejection, whether it's from someone I know, or a stranger.

Take the night I told my wife I liked her. LIKED HER. Not loved her, not wanting to marry her. No, this was at the start of our relationship, when I was informing her of the fact that I simply liked her.

I told her I had something I wanted to talk about, and she likely knew right away what it was, but she played coy and went along with my process. We met at the coffee shop on our college campus, because it was warm, as opposed to the outdoors in Alberta in January, which are far from warm. She ordered a London Fog, as they're called--an earl grey tea latte, if you're a Starbucks aficionado. We sat down together, and I was about to start talking, when I realized that we weren't alone in the coffee shop.

No, I'm not talking about the barista. Obviously, she was there.

There was a whole team of high school hockey players playing table hockey and fooseball and being generally rowdy. Why I hadn't really noticed them before this moment is anyone's guess... Though it likely had something to do with the fact that it was creating a busy enough soundscape that I didn't feel like I could concentrate on my own thoughts.

I asked if she'd be okay with taking a walk outside (remember where we were?), and, like a true American, she said "it's cold out there"... And like a true Canadian, followed it up with "but we can do that, sure."

So we set out, her London fog in hand, through what honestly was everything shy of an actual blizzard. It was dumping snow, and very cold. Only saving grace was it wasn't windy.

We walked for a very long time. I don't dare venture a guess, because I'm sure that in the moment, my sense of time was skewed. However, it was long enough for my wife's tea latte to turn to a puck of solid ice. I'm serious. It took me that long to actually get the words "I like you a lot" out of my mouth.

Except, it took even longer than that. I kept stumbling over my words and worrying aloud about how what I had to say might change everything for us, and not wanting to spoil our friendship with a bombshell and whatever else I could think of to say...except what I actually wanted to say.

Really, if she hadn't known what was coming before this moment, she knew by now.

So she tells me to spit it out, or she's going back inside where it's warm.

I miraculously manage, in a halting way, to tell her I like her, and she responds simply " I like you too."

We headed back inside, and that was that.

We have laughed often since then at this story, because it does seem a little ridiculous. Probably because it is a little ridiculous.

But it's how I have often functioned. I worry easily. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's there. I'm learning, but it's still there from time to time. And that worry can be paralyzing. It can make it impossible to do or say the things you know you need to; the things you know you should.

Thank goodness it doesn't take me that long to get around to saying the important things now.

At least, not in that area of life.

My name is Sam, and I *may* sometimes worry myself into a paralysis when I face big decisions.

:Tree:

I have decided, since having kids, that one of the most difficult and potentially awkward questions for new parents to have to answer is: "do you plan on having any more?"

It's not actually that the question is, in and of itself, that awkward. And it's really not an issue of whether or not I (or most parents, for that matter) have a problem answering it. It has more to do with the way in which people respond to your answer. In fact, I would argue that this is pretty well the reason any question becomes awkward: the asker's response to the askee's answer.

We're all familiar with the scenario: person approaches new parent, sees cute little baby, attempts to pinch said baby's cheeks whilst dodging the flailing attempts of the mother to block this stranger from passing now goodness-knows-what germs to their beloved little one, and after this awkward exchange occurs, the conversation ensues (I should note here that this occasionally happens with relatives and non-strangers as well, though there is generally less germ-avoidance involved in those cases). Inevitably, the question of whether or not more children are on the horizon comes up, and the parent will coincidently give their answer, only to receive a response that, most times, would be enough to wilt an oak tree. 

This seems to be the case no matter what answer the poor parent gives: the asker always seems to have a differing view on whether or not it is worthwhile to birth or not to birth, or how long you should separate your children by, or whatever it may be.

And I really have to wonder: if you are going to disagree so vehemently with the parent in question, why do you bother asking in the first place? What I mean is; if you're just looking for an opportunity to voice YOUR opinion on children and family planning, then just give your opinion, instead of hiding behind a seeming curiosity regarding someone else's family planning habits. Or, at least, make sure that when they DO voice their thoughts (after all, you asked the question), you treat it as a valid response, realizing that they likely have a good grip on their own person, at least more so than a complete stranger would.

And the point of all this?

First, to discover that I actually DO have an opinion on this...which is news to me. Huh. There's my new thing for the day.

But the real reason is this: coming up on Christmas, there's another, almost equally as awkward, similarly volatile question that floats around, causing conversational avoidance en-masse:

"Do you have a fake tree, or did you get a real one?"

Everyone has their reasons why one or the other is best, and everyone seems to have an opinion on whether or not the other person is rot regarding his or her view on this festive dead plant (or plastic shrub). Personally, I'm a huge fan of the real trees... But I currently have an artificial one up in my living room because I didn't have the time this season to go up into the hills and cut one down (yay for Canada's crown land laws!), nor did I care to spend exorbitant amounts on a pre-cut shrub that has been dead and dropping needles for three weeks already.

All this being said: it's the "family planning" question of the Christmas season. Don't deny it: you've received the dirty looks regarding your Yule-tree choices over the years. You've endured the scorn and the ridicule, and wondered whether or not it was even worth opening your mouth in answer to the question in the first place.

I say it is. Because it's you. Doesn't matter what the other people say. I love real trees. I'm a real tree guy. I'm cheating on my real tree right now by keeping a fake one in my living room. But I've come to grips with that. 

Surely, if I can be okay living with my festive shrubbery choices, you can, too?