One Hour

With an hour, I can do anything. Instead of writing, I could be exercising. Working on my body till it glistens with sweat and shines like the sea on a sunny day. My muscles will be swollen with work and blood and tears and frustration. My skin will be sticky, and hot, but cold to the touch. After many hours of this kind of work, I could look like a Greek God or a Roman Soldier. My arms and legs would be defined with shadows and hills that lead the eye up and down. I would feel proud of all the work, as long as I kept at it. 

With an hour, I can do anything. Instead of writing, I could clean my bedroom, top to bottom. My bed would be wrinkle-less, begging to be jumped on, splayed out on, or cozied up to read on. My drawers would be organized and every thing would have it’s place, so that not a minute would go by that I’d spend searching for a hair tie or favorite pair of socks. My closet would represent how I feel on the inside: uncluttered, taken care of, and full of thought. 

With an hour, I can do whatever I want. Instead of writing, I could be reading. I could sit in my favorite settee in the kitchen, a steaming mug of tea next to me and a book open on my Kindle App. I would be lost in a fantasy world, trudging through forests and fighting monsters with all the strength I had. I’d be discovering my magical powers and what royal throne I would eventually inherit. I’d only come up to breath when I needed to eat. 

With an hour, I can go wherever. Instead of writing, I could be shopping. I could be hunting and gathering, finding mini pancakes for my oldest’s favorite breakfast, or a birthday present for a friend’s party this weekend. I could search aisles for the perfect skirt to go with my favorite black sweater, figure out which large earrings match my most recent mood, or what purse goes better with the season than the one I am currently using. I could find the right poster board for school projects, or the right light bulbs for each lamp in the house. I could get new soap, toilet paper, dishwasher pods, sponges, and batteries to fill my home. 

With an hour, I can watch. Instead of writing, I could be catching up on movies or TV shows. I could lounge on the couch or my bed, staring for hours at beautiful places and people. I could soak up fast paced story lines, be surprised by twists, and shocked with dialogue. I could simply be entertained and enjoy time without needy thoughts. 

With an hour, I can listen. Instead of writing, I could tune out the world and put on my air pods. Music keeps my mood going, while podcasts make me feel less alone. But the books. Books would take me away from whatever task I was doing and pull me into a better one. I would hear the voice of a comedian who looked at the world with a sense of humor instead of complaints. I would hear the stories of people, learn out their life, and be in it with them. 

With an hour, I can be still. Instead of writing, I could lay out in the sun. I’d let the warmth of it’s ray wash over my skin, baking it an eventual brown. My eyelids would turn red while my nose turned pink. The breeze would cool the sweat dripping down my neck and back, feeling like a nudge of awareness from the earth. I’d swat at bugs, the real and imagined, and contemplate all the other things I should be doing instead of lying there, doing absolutely nothing, and loving it. 

With an hour, I can converse. Instead of writing, I could be talking. Sharing my activities, feelings, thoughts, suggestions, and advice with friends on Marco Polo. Catching up with family on the phone, sharing what shenanigans our kids have been into lately. Making important flu shot and dentist appointments. Making sure the car will be inspected and cleaned and aligned, and that they’ll give me a loaner, and that it will be covered. Making reservations at new dinner spots to try with friends. I could be resolving conflicts, lending an ear, or venting. 

With an hour, I can make. Instead of writing, I could be trying out a new recipe, hopefully one that gives me confidence in the kitchen, the kind of confidence that doesn’t leave and keeps me wanting to do more and not give up or acknowledge my lack of cooking talent or passion. I could be making a new scarf, or cute home decoration, or necklace for the girls, or card for a friend. 

With an hour, I can rearrange, instead of writing, I could rearrange my house so I enjoy being in it more. My living would be cozier with fuzzy blankets and furry pillows. My kitchen would be inviting with the lastest seasons’ decorations: flying bats, Santa cookie jars, or bright yellow pineapples. I could move the furniture by myself, and make the whole room feel like a different place. 

With an hour, I could move. Instead of writing, I could run errands. I could pick up my prescriptions, drop off my dry cleaning, and make it to the post office before it closed. I could grab new bathroom shades from home depot, a new coffee pot from Walmart, and pick up some cold medicine for the husband on the way. I could stop at the tire store and get my tires filled, grab some coffee and gas, and then hit up LA Fitness for a smoothies. I could stop at my old gym and the massage place and cancel my contracts, I could hit up the mall for bourbon chicken or lamb over rice, or a new bra. 

With an hour, I can get selfish. Instead of writing, I’d be pampered. My toes would sparkle like diamonds in the sky, and my heels would be buffed like glass. My nails would be a perfectly manicured mini coffins. My eyelash would jump away from eye and swoop up to my eyebrows like birds released from their cages. My skin would glow after a soothing facial, and my muscles would be soft and supple after a relaxing, oily massage. I would be buffed, scrubbed, rubbed, plucked, and glued, and then top it all off with a soak in the hot tub. 

With an hour, I can love. Instead of writing, I could focus on my husband. Touching him, listening to him, watching his lips move. Smelling his neck and his face, the scent his clothes create with him in them. Gliding my hand down his back, and squeezing his cheek. Holding his hand, and smiling at the way his fingers fit with mine. A long hug, that makes me feel warm, and loved, needed and wanted. Eye contact that makes me feel seen and cherished. Passion and love that makes me feel like a woman and everything.

With an hour, I can play. Instead of writing, I could play with my kids. Connect Four, Legos, Barbies, or Hatchimals. School. Store. Dress up, make movies, read books, or watch a movie together. I could see the glee in their faces as I spend time in their world, and make them seen and loved and heard and known. I could hug and squeeze and kiss them. Giggle, laugh, sing, dance. 

With an hour, I can cry. Instead of writing, I could let it out. The tears of tension would pour down my cheeks, as the weight of the world rested heavily on my chest and the bridge of my nose. Feelings of worthlessness, failures, resentment, anger, frustration, and hurt would slip past my lashes and lunge for my throat. They’d coat my skin and seal it with understand and release. My head would ache for hours, and my eyes would deceive my pain for the next 24.