Frittering

I hear it when I walk from my kitchen through the hall to my home office. Thunk, thunk, thunk…The battery-powered wall clock ticking away. It didn’t use to bother me, but it does now. I’m more aware of time passing, second by second by second.

It’s come upon me, just in the last few months, that I don’t have my whole life ahead of me. I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, I signed the papers to start on Medicare last year, and I take advantage of senior citizens discounts whenever I can.

Okay, I know I’m getting on up there in age, and I’ve earned every one of those grey hairs hidden under the color rinse of the month. But darn it, I still remember like it was yesterday the carefree 20-year-old who walked to class at Oberlin College, knowing full well she was embarking on a memorable life and feeling palpably happy.

In the blink of an eye I’ve turned 66, and, while there is much that makes me happy, I’m brought up short by the few years of productive life I have left. Yes, “productive” is the operative word. It’s in my bones that frittering away time is unacceptable. How will I make peace with this notion of having a short time left? 

It will be hard, but I have to.