The race is on, and I’m losing yet again.
Every year, I swear it will be different. I’ll be organized. I’ll resist the interruptions, the intrusions, the urgent-but-unimportant disturbances that break my stride. I’ll do two century rides, I’ll take 2,000 photos, I’ll spend 100 days with the grandkids, I’ll make this year different from the nearly 70 that preceded it.
And here I am again, with the calendar about to shed another page and the impending solstice mocking me like my first three psychiatrists. Coulda, woulda, shoulda, didn’t, didn’t, didn’t. The best we can say here is that I’m remarkably consistent.
The Yiddish proverb says that man plans and God laughs, which would make me the most successful comedian in the heavens. Here on earth, though, I’m not sure I’m in on the joke. My only consolation is the absolute knowledge that I’m not alone, that a life of distractions is the human condition.
What is it about us that we’re so easily distracted, lured away from the things we value most to give away our lives to the unimportant, the foolish, the transient goofiness of strangers? How do we allow ourselves to invest our reputations, our emotions, and our irreplaceable time on earth in bagatelles?
When the calendar flips over to September 1, daylight in Chicago will be two hours shorter than on the solstice and about equal to April 9, when the low was a rainy 34 and the high was a balmy 49. I’d like to say I used my days well since then, but I’ve spent more time reading Twitter than I’ve spent on the bicycle and more hours on Facebook than with my friends. Yeah, I know, they’re “friends,” on Facebook, too, but I haven’t met most of them.
Nope, I’ve blown most of the 90 days the sun spends north of the equator and I’ll miss the remaining three weeks if I don’t get moving. Now.
Sadly, I’ve been here before, and before, and before. Like all the times I’ve finished my fourth slice of pizza or my fifth beer or my sixth rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, I promise that this is the last time I’ll make that mistake and, oops, I do it again. Next time, though, that’s the charm. Just wait and see.
Okay, enough of this tomfoolery. I need to get serious if I’m going to reclaim the summer. No more lallygagging or shillyshallying or making up words like himbydimbying just to stall for time. I’m heading out right now to pull the spider webs off the bike and greet the open road. There’s no stopping me this time.
Right after I check my feed on Tik Tok.
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Who writes this stuff?
Dadwrites oozes from the warped mind of Michael Rosenbaum, an award-winning author who spends most of his time these days as a start-up business mentor, book coach, photographer and, mostly, a grandfather. All views are his alone, largely due to the fact that he can’t find anyone who agrees with him.