The Timer

When I was a little girl my mom would tell me I could go play but had to be home at a certain time. Like, an hour, let's say. So I would run up the stairs all excited to the 3rd floor and knock on the door my friends lived behind. We would laugh and play and have a gay old time but six year old me couldn't read a clock. I was just learning about the big hand and the little hand and the designated hour of play would slip away unnoticed. Until my mother came pounding on the door a few hours later, totally irritated with me, that is. So she got hip and found a solution. She would hand me the kitchen timer. You remember those that count 60 minutes and have a dial on the front and a bell in the back, batteries not required? Well she would set it for an hour and send me on my way. That worked out great until I realized Barbie and Skipper needed a little more time to decorate the dream mansion. Then I got hip and realized I could nudge it back just a little, allowing the budding interior designers time to complete our charge.

I recalled this memory and laughed this morning. I was rushed, hurried and irritated that I leave everything to the last minute. Then I get mad about all the things I should do. Get up, make the bed. Eat something, put the dish into the dishwasher. No, I don't seem to have it down to a science and the result is clutter and chaos which only increases my irritation. So mom, you don't even know it, but you have helped this Fibrate discover motivation today. See, I found if every couple hours I set the timer for 15 minutes and did stuff and then sat back down when it went off, I reached my goal. I got stuff done without overexerting. What is it they call this? Oh yeah, balance.

Thanks for joining,

Leah