I'm doomed. At the best of times, I don't know which end is up or whether I'm coming or going. Steve used to say I looked like a duck in a shooting gallery as I'd leave a room, remember a forgotten item, whirl to go back for it, decide I didn't need it, spin back around, and repeat. My sleep pattern is such that I am still waking up at the old time, which means I'm an hour late by the clock. I had been congratulating myself for being early for two recent appointments; now I've been set up for failure. My daughter told me, "Embrace it, Mom. You can't change it." I don't plan to get that intimate with something I don't like.
The calendar has joined the conspiracy to do me in. Days are zipping by like leaves in a whirlwind. Easter has sneaked into March. It can't be St. Patrick's Day this weekend; I don't have a corned beef yet! It's as if birthdays are written in invisible ink, only becoming apparent after the fact. All I send are belated wishes.
Even the weather is against me. It's still winter, but I'm not dressed for days in the 70s. The jacket that I've thrown on to go to the barn has me sweating on the way back. (Sorry. Ladies don't sweat, we "glow.") I've been glowing a lot lately.
I did a lot of dusting yesterday. No, that's not a sign of the apocalypse. It means Clay is coming up tomorrow and Deb and Craig will be here on Saturday and, by golly, I'm going to be ready! (Today is Wednesday, right?)