Speeding Through Life and Missing the Signs
How a Yoga Cats wall calendar helped me slow down time
I watched the seconds limp by on my microwave, wondering if I had the stamina to stand there for the full 1:44 it takes to heat a mug of water for tea. Each number paused on the screen, mocking my impatience.
It’s not like I had to go save a life or be anywhere besides back at my desk in front of the article I couldn’t figure out how to start writing. But I still couldn’t help but yank the oven door open seconds before the time ran out.
Outside of microwave years — and pretty much any doctor’s office waiting room — it feels like time moves at 1.75x, which, perhaps, is why this is also my audiobook-listening speed.
Now that my kids are grown, time should multiply around me like water bottles, age spots, and pet hair.
I should find heaps of time everywhere I turn. I don’t do school pickups or soccer drop-offs anymore. I’m not forging reading logs, hunting down the black game socks with the white stripes, or out fetching a Hawaiian shirt/cowboy hat/fuzzy robe for whatever spirit day just snuck up on us.
By my calculations, I should have obscene amounts of time on my hands. And yet, every day is a race.
What can I accomplish in the hours before my brain makes a break for Netflix, and all I can do is forward memes to my friends who also don’t have enough time to actually get together?
And what about all the books, recipes, and projects I’ve been saving for someday? The podcasts I want to listen to? The sweaters I want to knit — as soon as I learn how?
But it’s not just that each day feels like it’s on fast forward. Weeks slip by like a terrible movie montage. The other day, I was sitting at a traffic light, wondering when I last put money in my retirement fund when I noticed the windshield sticker from the service station. It said I was overdue for an oil change.
Why does it feel like it’s always time to go in for an oil change? I mean, I was just there. Did I really drive that much? Where did I go?
I’ve been thinking about buying a wall calendar.
The old-fashioned kind with a picture for every month. Sunflowers. Vintage Travel Posters. Yoga Cats. I always had one in my room when I was a kid. By my desk in college. When the boys were little, I kept one in the kitchen.
For years, my mom made them for me using photos of the kids. Max and Noah cutting out paper hearts for February. Waving tiny American flags for July. Noah diving into a pile of leaves for October. Max baking holiday cookies with her for December.
Walking by my calendar reminded me where I stood in time.
I experienced each month in its totality, not just two or three key dates. And yet I never realized that this organizing tool posing as home décor was actually a grounding device.
Not until it disappeared from view.
As my kids — and their activities — grew, I couldn’t fit all of a single day’s commitments into one of those little boxes. I switched to a whiteboard with a weekly view.
Then a digital calendar that was everywhere, and yet nowhere. I do love getting text reminders 10 minutes before I’m late for something, but I miss the reminders of where I stand in time.
Now the only thing hanging in my kitchen are air plants. I give them a bath every week, but they grow so slowly, I hardly notice any change.
It’s not just the monthly cycle of a wall calendar that I’ve lost.
Ever since I got my first IUD, I haven’t gotten a period. My doctor says my body still experiences cycles, but because I don’t see the signs, they’re hard to track.
In the years prior, my months were structured by a familiar pattern: moodiness, acne, bloating, then bleeding. I could connect what my body was feeling or doing in the moment to where I stood in time. Now it’s just a guess — am I really crying because they rearranged the grocery store again, or is it possible that hormonal fluctuations are at play?
Automatic bill payment and subscription-based shopping have had similar effects on me. Just with fewer tears. The first of the month no longer activates the part of my brain where anxiety lives, warning me of what’s at risk should I forget to pay the mortgage. And now that vitamins, cat food, and water filters appear on my doorstep right when I need them, my life is practically on autopilot.
I wouldn’t want to lose these modern conveniences. They make life more manageable. But I kind of miss having signs to guide me. And I wonder where all that time goes.
I’ve learned, maybe a little late in the game, that I rely on signs — big ones — to mark time.
And when the signs are gone, I tend to lose my way — whether I’m on an actual trail in the woods or just trying not to get lost on the path through adulthood — the one where I need to make sure I save for retirement, floss my teeth, and not fall apart in the canned foods aisle.
Maybe it’s time for a new Yoga Cats calendar. An actual signpost right in my kitchen. If I’m lucky, the calm and balanced state of those asana-loving kitties will rub off on me before I prematurely yank that mug of water from the microwave.
For now, each night, before I surrender to my pillow, I check the clock. Like an infant who hasn’t learned object permanence, I’m always shocked at how many hours have passed.
It’s already midnight? Wasn’t it just 8:30 a few minutes ago? That’s when I have to decide whether I should make myself go to sleep or listen to a few more minutes (1.75x) of my audiobook.
Karen Scholl is a writer and recovering soccer mom living the dream in a flyover state. Her humor book Surviving Soccer: A Chill Parent’s Guide to Carpools, Calendars, Coaches, Clubs, and Corner Kicks is forthcoming from Triumph Books.
