rhythm [rith-uhm]
noun
movement or procedure with uniform or patterned recurrence of a beat, accent, or the like.
rhythm
noun
1 the rhythm of the music: beat, cadence, tempo, time, pulse, throb, swing.
2 poetic features such as rhythm: meter, measure, stress, accent, cadence.
3 the rhythm of daily life: pattern, flow, tempo
Other than being a difficult word to spell, I find rhythm difficult to incorporate into my life. I relish when I'm in step with myself, but struggle when I'm out. Often I don't know just when to step in, if my lagging foot will catch up. Or drag. Or go way out in front.
Often, I only seem to circle. Safer there. Accomplishing what needs to be done in that little orb.
My husband has a rhythm. Monday through Friday, from the moment he awakes he has his movements down. From what time he makes his coffee, enters the bathroom, turns on the iron, the shower, puts his shoes on and greases his lips from the Carmex jar on his bed stand followed by picking up his gym bag, yogurt, and brief case.
I know not to get up while he is on his route. Days when I teach, I lie
in bed until I hear the door to the garage close before I get up to begin my day. I would only get in
his way, ruin his routine. His pattern. His rhythm.
When he comes home from work, he gets the mail out of the mailbox, then tosses his dirty gym clothes into the basket in the laundry room, sets his brief case on the desk chair and his gym bag on the desk. He grabs a handful of almonds to hold him until dinner is ready. He then goes into the bedroom to change into his shorts or sweats (depending on the weather) and takes a seat on the couch, remote control for the TV in hand.
On the days I teach, the rhythm is handed to me. Nothing is required but to follow along, I do fine with that. But when left to my own devises, I struggle. I am not so defined. I have no patterns.
Perhaps it is my days as a mother - always prepared to turn in any direction. No chance to find a schedule of any permanency. Prepared to drop whatever I may have going to tend to the needs of others.
These days I don't have the constant jerk of something taking me out of sync and into another direction -- except for that man I live with. My job doesn't have a permanent work schedule - working different days
of the week for different teachers. Different students so no routine
there. If I do seem to find a pattern, things like Christmas, company, or a new project take me out of the norm. I find it difficult to get back in order. To make it all fit.
My home life has the rote activities such as cleaning and laundry, Grocery shopping and dinner making. Cleaning and laundry. Grocery shopping and dinner making.
But my days are not very well planned. I can't find a schedule. I'm faced with too many options. I gather my lists and don't know where to begin. Should I work on the taxes? Should I call the eye doctor? Should I wash my kitchen floor? Should I finish that blanket I was making? Should I get those files refiled? Should I go dig up my garden? What time should I go to the YMCA? Should I get a new blog post written? Should I finish getting my pictures on the wall? Should I just sit and read a book? Should I get my novel out and seek the rhythm of that venture I so love?
Should I call my friends over for Happy Hour? Or should I play another game of Solitaire?
Too many choices. Too many requiring a rhythm that doesn't connect to the next. I don't know how to section out the day for some of those things on my list. How to get back in the more intense rhythm required for those that require immersion - like the taxes or the writing.
How do you get into a rhythm? How do you choose which rhythm? What will you allow to interrupt your rhythm?
Showing posts with label happy hour. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happy hour. Show all posts
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Can You Babysit Your Dad? I'm Going to Happy Hour

Pleasure is the bait of sin.
Plato
Let's face it. I can only be good for so long.
After four days in the hospital tending my husband after hip replacement surgery, followed by six days at home with only a grocery store and a BandAid run added to my 'oh, there is so a reason I wasn't a nurse' role, I decided to see a movie. Like in a movie theater movie. Called a couple of friends who had the day off.
True to my usual twisted menu of movie/TV watching, Bridesmaids (click to see the trailer) didn't disappoint. I can't tell you too much about it other than I'm glad none of my sons sat with me while I busted my gut laughing. The story was an old one, but the delivery and writing, very funny. Just what I needed.
After the movie, my friends and I sat in the lobby and talked of the day's errands ahead: Linda - grocery store, bank and Lisa had a return and a $5 coupon for something free at Kohl's burning a hole in her pocket. I, of course, had to return to the painkiller infused, over-achieving hip replacement recoverer, lovingly guarded by my 19-year-old son during my two hour escape.
I finally said, "Lets just go get a drink."
"It's 2:00," Lisa said.
"Close enough."
I called youngest son. "Can you babysit your dad a little longer? I have to go to Happy Hour."
Funny how life evolves.
Encouraged by the comic opera in the movie, I decided to forgo my usual glass of wine and ordered a Pomegranate Cosmopolitan. I'd never had one. I was thinking martini = a buzz. Should have ordered a shot of tequila. All I got was a martini glass filled with Kool-Aid and a too sweet toothache. But, gotta try everything once.
An hour later, resuscitated by a change of scenery and conversation with girlfriends, I paid off youngest son and went back to the old boy and his walker. Now, eight days later, if I could only educate him on carpal tunnel syndrome surgery required from thumbing the channel changer on the remote control EVERY 30 F------- SECONDS and the cost of replacing the window said remote will fly through when I get my hands on it, I promise I'll be really good.
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