The weeks seem to go by so quickly now, quicker than I ever remember, and I used to worry about that, that time seemed to be speeding up as I aged, but for some reason lately I'm not worried about it, not as much, and I actually feel this urge to push time on, like I'm reaching for something, impatiently waiting for something to happen, something good, maybe something that will make it stop or at least slow down again, or something worth pushing past all this time at least. Baseball season? Warmer weather? Summer? something out there is making me want to push through days, one after the other, hardly noticing that they're there until they've passed, Mondays melting into Wednesdays melting into Sundays, all striving towards some unknown and probably unreachable goal. I'm fully conscious of this and how silly it is, that I'm wasting this time moving blindly towards something, I don't even know what, and that I should be savoring each day the way I savor small pieces of bittersweet chocolate. But I still do it, unconsciously I think until at least 5 pm, when I leave work, and I realize that I haven't actually said hello to my day yet, not really, that most of it is gone without me even realizing it was there.

I live for Sundays now. It's my I-don't-have-to-run-day, a la the Bangles, the day that I get to spend on the couch with my husband falling asleep to movies and having someone else bring me food. They're warm and comfortable, like a pair of thick cashmere socks, while weekdays are like hard leather work shoes-- heels even. 

I'm not stressed and yet I display physical signs of stress-- clenched jaw, painful shoulders, cramped hands. I'll have carpal tunnel by age 30 at this rate. I try deep breathing and yoga but once I'm back in this black pleather chair in front of this screen, my jaw tightens like a vice around my tongue, it telling me to stay focused on my work, forcing me to keep my head turned this way and my words in my mouth. 

The voice inside my head still has a British accent sometimes, especially when I'm sleepy, even though I haven't been in London in over two years now. And sometimes the voice in my head is Lewis Black-- not his voice, but his style, his rants, humor, sarcasm, dejection. That's the voice I don't let make that trip from my brain to my tongue, lest others know the craziness that lives inside my head, a ranting Queens-English speaking wild woman who wants nothing more than for everyone to leave her alone and let everyday be Sunday.

At least I recognized today. Thursday exists today.