I haven’t written on this blog site in months. Tell me: where does the time go?

It’d be an interesting short story to personify Time. He resembles a tall, hairy Italian man in a speedo, who wears gold chains, I think. I could bring to life the places Time actually goes while a secondary character (fine, it’s me) is busy working (a simplified way of saying spending her days completely overwhelmed by work responsibilities), spending time with her family, planning a trip to Japan and generally trying to keep her head above water. Time, meanwhile, could be, maybe, floating along on a soft current in Maui listening to dolphins’ underwater communications or something, cocktail with a little colorful umbrella in hand. He’s doing something esoteric and much more important than bending to my will. He’s just gone.

As long as we’re agreeing to personify Time for a minute, I declare that Time would be an immovable, arrogant, untouchable being. Not mean, but a little obnoxious, unconcerned with the plight of any other force. Time, after all, does just whatever the hell it wants while I hang on its coattails like a small child begging please don’t go.

Time goes anyway, and sometimes you don’t realize Time is gone, and then, suddenly, you’re aware of him, like a 7-foot tall center on the opposite basketball team who subs in and scores twelve points before your feet move to play a little defense. Because you’re 44 and you have no coach to yell at you to hustle it up. Plus you’re fooling yourself that you can play basketball in the first damn place. You’re 5’2 on a good day, and Time, as I said, is 22 inches taller. You are never, ever going to win, no matter how fast you are. Time takes six steps and he’s down the court. You, not so much.

It’s an excuse, I know. Time passes too quickly for us all. Friends and family of all ages tell me that’s true. Lately, though, Time has returned from the vacation I thought he was on, and he’s doing a great deal of blocking shots and dunking the ball I mistakenly thought was in my possession. In short, he’s kicking my ass.

When I feel like this, I question everything. Is it possible to have a mid-life crisis at 44? I think it is. I don’t want a convertible or a motorcycle, but I do find myself thinking about that list of things I’ve always wanted to do. Here are three:

1. write for a living
2. live in a warm climate
3. get paid to travel

The time has come when I’ve stopped wondering if Time is on my side. He’s wearing the opposite colored jersey now, scoring points against me, and it’s time to switch up my game. It’s a losing proposition, I know, but that doesn’t mean the game can’t still be fun, that I don’t still have a few moves left in me.

I’m inspired by people who zig when you think they’re going to zag. They change things up at a time it would be easy to get comfortable and enmeshed in routine. I can’t lie: too much routine bores me.

I’m restless, can you feel it? I’m seeking new adventures.