26 May 2014
There was plenty I could do, but nothing I had to do. No school run, no work, no writing deadlines; nothing.
Usually when these days come up I spend them doing all the stuff I don’t otherwise have time to do. Like filing and hovering the car and talking to the accountant and arranging my books alphabetically by author (I know, just me on that last one). These things are all useful and I achieve a great deal. By the end of the day I feel very righteous: my “to do” list is shorter and I have accomplished much. I feel rather smug and satisfied; and absolutely knackered.
I sit, feet up, with a glass of wine, wondering when my next holiday will be, so that I can recharge my batteries and finally get some rest. But it has occurred to me recently that perhaps, on the rare days that I am not busy, I should treat them exactly like a one-off holiday.
Sounds easy enough, but it really isn’t. I started the day pretending to have a lie-in, even though I was wide awake at 7.30. Then I got up, and pottered about the house, making a leisurely breakfast and endless cups of tea. After that is when I got twitchy. I looked around the house and could see mess and washing and chores and books out of order, and it was physically painful to restrain myself from attacking them all at once.
This perpetual business is, I am told, a peculiarly female habit. I’m not sure if that’s true, but my friend is convinced that his wife is just compelled to dash around the house doing stuff that frankly, although useful, doesn’t have to be done. Or at least not that often or that well.
Hoovering was his bug bear: every day when she got home from work she would hoover, and then get irritated that he wasn’t helping. His view, with which I am developing some sympathy, was that he wanted to laze about, because it was good for him to relax; and the house didn’t need hovering every day. So he continued to rest while she became increasingly irritable.
I did manage to restrain myself from such frenetic activity, and in the end retreated into the one thing that can always make me waste a day – a good book. But therein lies the issue. I still think of it as wasting a day. Despite how content I felt, I can’t quite get my head around the fact that it is good for me to relax and do nothing. It feels like ticking off chores on a list would be a better use of my time; and that can’t be right, can it? That can’t be more important than regaining your energy?
I have a friend who is very good at doing nothing, whenever it can be done, and he distils it thus: “Don’t sweat the small stuff”. Do what has to be done, ignore the rest, and mostly it’ll work out fine.
