The Quandary of “Me” Time

From the Corona Files

Lately I’ve been in a state of limbo, where time has very little definition or meaning. This actually feels different than “time off” or “vacation” time. During the holidays I let go: go to bed and sleep late. With the caveat that it is all provisional—that eventually after the first of the year etc I will go back to work. In time suspended, in the time of corona I still set the alarm and get up as normal because I don’t want to forget. I want to remember what it feels like to have a schedule.

In this surplus of time I’ve found another dimension. What about “me” time? Maybe I have a much bigger quotient of self-guilt; I know I can be harder on myself than others around me are—but when one cannot be productive how to quantify “me” time? I guess it could all be considered “me” time. Yet, during what would normally be considered working hours I spend that time stressing out about being unproductive; I worry about all the stuff I’m not doing.

But once late afternoon hits, then I give myself permission. I venture out for some exercise, I’ll sit and have a snack with my tea—as if to reward myself. Well-deserved “me” time. In the evening, after supper, I can sit guilt-free in front of the TV or choose to read or cross-stitch, because I’m now off the clock.

Who’s clock?

I can’t seem to shake off the perception that all of it, all the minutes and seconds, hours, days, weeks, months are going into the same hopper, down the drain of time wasted during the corona virus.