In a world of seemingly perpetual motion, I am always trying to stay on the track.
Every day I treat differently–no, it’s not as if I give the weekdays pet names, like Wedny or Sundah. What I mean is I come into each day with a goal–I am going to do this, or I am going to do that; and during all those seconds and minutes and hours I push to accomplish that goal.
Sure it sounds typical to most of you. We are, as the human race, a pretty determined people. And kudos to all of you who feel they relate to this post. I’d give you cookies, but I forgot to bake them–or did I eat them?
Now, I hope there is still a large amount of relation between us when I say, “I cannot binge watch.” Seriously, I don’t think it’s in my genetic code. Gasps! Screams! Spilled ice cream cones! See, whenever I sit down to watch a TV show, I try limiting myself to around two episodes, tops; anything more is pushing it.
I would love to watch six episodes in a row, however–
My mind won’t let me.
It sees that I am reaching my two episode limit, then jerks up the alarm. Bwah Bwah, it goes out my ears, Bwah Bwah YOU’RE NOT MOVING! ARE YOUR LEGS BROKEN? HAVE YOU FALLEN AND YOU CANNOT GET UP?
“Nah,” I respond, “I just wanted to enjoy myself for a bit.”
Mr. Mind does not agree. So what Mr. Mind does is snap on a little guilt machine, making me feel ashamed for wanting to devour so much TV; unfortunately, it works, and I turn off the TV and curse myself for wasting so much precious time–even though I usually have around six hours left of daylight.
I get to work. It’s the only thing I can do. Doesn’t matter what I’m engaged in, so long as it is not watching the TV, or napping on the bed, or eating crap tons of food for no sane reason, save to kill a few minutes. This makes me both irritated and grateful. Irritated, because I would like to binge some times and laze around; and grateful, because it shows I have limits, even when those limits are, at times, overbearing.
Call it Constant Motion, The Story of My Life.
There are some occasions, where I win the battle and watch my two episodes without a guilt trip, but Mr. Mind does not get paid the big bucks for nothing. He saddles up and lassos that guilt complex hours after I have had my fun. For God’s sake, he’s like the Terminator: you kill him, feel like a bad ass, and he comes roaring back in the sequels, with a deeper accent and a hell of a lot more wrinkles.
Hasta la vista, ba–oh, shit, how’d he get behind me so fast?
Sorry, Arnold, just as my mind is always moving, so is my mouth.