It’s just after 3:00 which, according to Sartre, means it’s too early or too late for anything—a truism to which I’ve fervently held since the very first time I heard it.
It’s too late to have the house clean before my husband gets home, too late to have something nice simmering on the stove or in the crock pot. It’s too late to work out after class, like I thought I might. It’s too late to make much of a dent in my research today.
But on the other hand, its too early to do much about whatever dinner will be (order in? Go out? Forage through the fridge?) It’s also too early to kick back and settle in. Too early for pajama pants, or to pour a glass of wine. It’s too early for TV. It’s also too early for any of myriad potential evening game-changers to hit: spur of the moment invites, last minute decisions to shop, or dine, or watch something, somewhere.
It’s simply not time for anything…except maybe the one thing there never seems to be enough time for these days: writing. Oh, how I wish for 3:00 to happen a little more often, and to last a whole lot longer.