The Labor Day blues

When I turned on my computer, the first thing that greeted me was a note from an old friend explaining that she’s really too “slammed” to have a birthday dinner celebration (her birthday is already two days past) until the end of the month and then only on a few selected nights. (I was tempted to say not to mind, I’d mail her gift, but that strikes me as snarky.)

While I was still puzzling over that, Jordan breezed in with a pan I needed to cook supper. When I said I also needed another one, but I’d get it when she got home around four, she looked horrified and said, “I won’t be home until six-fifteen or six-thirty, and I have to leave in eight minutes.”

Later in the morning, my sweet friend Betty, with whom I have dinner every week like clockwork, came by with a get-well card and said she’s not only too busy to have our usual Wednesday-night supper, she can’t go the next night either.

Sigh. Labor Day is behind us, and everyone has the feeling that summer is over and they must hurry to do whatever they have to do. I am fortunately untouched by that feeling, working on a book that is due in May. I think I have a little time.

Even on the cooking list that I read regularly, I found traces of this attitude. One woman wrote now that fall is here, she must get busy baking. Who says she must?

And is fall here? Another woman on that same list wrote that she saw a sure sign that fall is on its way—the butter on her kitchen counter was hard this morning. But in Texas, it’s still almost a hundred and there is no chill in the morning air, no crisp hint  that fall is on its way. It still feels like summer, and in spite of warning I saw that yesterday was the last day to wear white pants, I pulled on a pair today. That rules might have made sense when I lived in Chicago, but not in Texas.

I would like to protest that slowing down without worrying about it is one of the benefits of age, but I don’t think so. My friends who are so pressured and busy and frantic are all in their seventies. And I never felt that scattered even when I ran a busy office and tried to have a writing career simultaneously. I always claimed my organizational abilities were due to my dad—by the time I was twenty, I was his executive secretary and kept his office tightly organized. He was a man who used every minute. Nothing frustrated him more than to answer the phone only to hear a secretary (today’s administrative assistant) say, “Please hold for Mr. So and So.” He, who always made his own calls, would fume, “Doesn’t the man knowhow to dial a phone?” Having time is, to me, a matter of being organized—andof priorities.

I think being overscheduled is something we do to ourselves, because deep down we believe the busier we are, the more important and valued. We create our own stress, maybe in part because we don’t want to miss out on anything, but also in part because it shows our involvement with life. In fact, I think not too long ago I heard a sermon about this very topic.

I admit some of this is sour grapes on my part. Yes, it hurts my feelings when my friends are too busy for me. Friends are more important to me than many other things, and I often arrange my life around their schedules. I do spend a lot of time in the cottage, but I have a steady stream of visitors. And even if it were easier for me to get out, I’m not sure where I’d want to go. I like being home with my computer or a good book and, of course, with Sophie for company. I'm enjoying my slower life style, and I sure love not having to get up and rush aroud in the morning. 

Yes, Labor Day is behind us, and while it’s not seasonal to say, “Stop and smell the roses,” but maybe it’s time to stop, smell the crispness of fall (it should hit Texas soon), and admire the fall color.