Calendar Chicken

     Today my writing coach asked the class to write down our quarterly writing goals.

“Goals, Shmoals.” I whined in my head. Isn’t it enough that I just committed to something that looks like a New Year’s resolution? Of course I’m only five days into my resolve to stop swearing and I’ve already cussed heavily twice as many times in as many days. Shove off, I’m trying.

     Intimidated, I stared at the Goal Contract and tried to think about how I wanted to do better. Learn. Create. I quickly overwhelmed myself with lofty, glamorous, unachievable goals sure to jettison me right past the NYT Best Seller’s list and into a wall of certain failure. Isn’t it enough that I get up and dress myself every morning? Isn’t enough that I can make it to this writing class? If I’m forced to manage a goal or be held accountable while in pursuit of some kind of transformation I’m likely to cut-corners somewhere else and show up in this class naked some day IF I come at all.

    Alas, despite being easily intimidated, I’m also ridiculously driven to over-committing myself. What’s one more resolution? So driven, I confidently filled out my Goal Contract. “I commit to writing once a day for thirty minutes. I commit to dedicating time on my calendar to write, just like I plug-in time for the gym.” It’s that important.

Stop swearing and write more. A lot more.

Shit.

     As I drove home from class, I felt the familiar angst of desperate timelessness. “How will I find the time? Between the gym, the kids, schools, meals, the market, the gas, the bank, the incessant driiiiving…!” My lists got longer, my window got smaller. So small, I could barely see a glint of light through it. But, there was light nonetheless.

     Upon arriving home I was instantly sucked up into the vortex of childcare. Guiding my misdirected ex-husband, tripping over the dog while putting laundry in the dryer, greasing an 8x8x2 pan for the cornbread batter I was now preparing to serve with dinner, which also had yet to be made. Simultaneously, I readied one child to leave with said misdirected ex-husband. I think I packed her laundry with one hand and stirred chicken with the other. My calendar lay flaccid on the counter, defenselessly absorbing the splatter of pan fried chicken. I got so angry at my calendar that I tossed it into the growing heap of garbage on my desk, where I have not even sat for three weeks.

     Tears welled up. Is there no end? I wondered. The rest of my family came home. Nope. I set the table.

     Today is an anomaly. The house is oddly quiet and still. No one is tugging on me, hollering at me from upstairs or downstairs, knocking (or not knocking) shouting through the door while I pee. The dog is asleep in his kennel. The calendar has some dried grease stains, but ultimately no worse for wear. Alone with nothing but my thoughts, I can do anything I want for an hour and a half. Clean my desk? Put away the dishes uninterrupted? Get dressed for the gym? Make my bed? WATCH AMISH MAFIA??? And then I remembered: Goals Shmoals and I wrote. 

     Without swearing.