Speeding

Lately, I have been speeding to work. I am speeding home from work, too. It’s a 60km trip into work; that’s about 45 miles. I can get it done in maybe 37 minutes if I’m really under pressure. Which is most days.

Probably should not admit this in a public space, but I feel that it’s an indication of something that’s affecting me. I hope Steve the cop doesn’t sit in wait for me to bomb past the rest stop west of Delungra in my Subaru.

I’m on my own on the property for about half the year these days. My husband is on the road, working hard to earn us money to live and to build his business. He’s often gone weeks and weeks at a time. We’re both struggling with it because we miss each other terribly, but accept that for the time being, it has to be.

It also means there’s always extra to do here on the place.

Four horses out of our seven are fed each night and one old fellow to feed each morning. On weekends, I turn my attention to hours of mowing every couple weeks, paddocks I should be slashing, horses to trim, water troughs to fill daily, poultry to look after and all the other stuff: dogs, laundry, cleaning, trying to get to this web site, time on my bike, the dogs, the cat, making food to eat, and all the things I can’t do on the place and in the house. I’ve put down my violin for about a year now.

And for five of those days, there is a full-time day in town with days of ever-dwindling sunlight. Winter is on its way. It is lonely.

So I’m balancing pulling myself from bed each day, getting chores done, leaving too late, speeding into town, speeding home to get things done so I might catch some light for a ride on the roads before dark. That’s not working too well these days. Fatigue takes over.

There is more and more to do at work all the time, it seems. More people phoning me, more people I feel that I don’t want to disappoint. Folks can tell me until they are blue in the face that I have to look after myself first. But you know, it’s easy to say that. When you’re charged with adrenaline to do your job, chasing one story after another, it’s hard to make that decision.

Sometimes my workday doesn’t end at 5; it ends at maybe 6 or 6.30, getting me home at 7.20. That means I’m on the job, driving there and back or otherwise engaged in it for about 12 hours.

I’m not complaining, but I’m observing that I feels an increasing need to rush from one thing to the other. Anybody can clearly see if I just got up earlier, or if I said no once in a while, and left work on time, then I wouldn’t need to speed in and out of town. I can see it, too.

But it just isn’t working out that way.

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