"As you get older, time just goes by faster."
I've heard some variation of that very statement many, many times in my life. So has everyone else probably. But until late, I never put much thought into it; I just blew it off like every other snippet of profound prophecy my elders attempted to impart upon me. Because, really, the statement makes no sense. Time cannot go by faster. There will always be 24 hours in a day, 60 minutes in an hour, and sixty seconds in a minute. 86,400 seconds in a day. That doesn't change. Period.
But something, somewhere, somehow, does change with a person's age...or at least with my age anyway. Obviously it's not time that changes - it's a person's perception of that time that changes. Why that perception changes, I don't know. If did, I would maybe then be able to reverse the progression of that perception change. Then again, if I could do that, I'd probably not only win a Nobel Prize, but I'd take away that little aspect of clarvoyance which elders currenly posess.
It's cliche to say I know, but not that many years ago, the days seemed almost endless. I would do so much in one day that I'd eventually lack for things to do, at which time I would succumb to boredom or relaxation, much to my chagrin at the time. But what I wouldn't give now to have the ability to exclaim, "I'm bored" or to be able to feel at ease and accomplished enough to fully relax - to just sit back knowing full well that I don't need to do a damn thing.
Those not-so-distant days lent themselves to seasons that seemed to last for eons. Oh how many things I could do in one summer! Weekend tubing trips down the river were commonplace, as were long days on the island, or whatever else that suited my fancy at the time - I had time to do it. And if I couldn't do it one day, I could do it the next, or on any of the long days to come. If I felt social, two phone calls would rustle up any number of friends I felt like hanging out with. If I felt reclusive, I had more than plenty of time to find a secluded campsite somewhere and just escape everything.
But it's not that way now. I have to schedule tubing trips weeks and months in advance and build my busy schedule around that. I take time off work to work on something else. The days pass by faster and faster and before I know it, summer fades into fall, then winter, then spring and the cycle repeats itself with only the occasional realization that the weather has changed and the supposed season of "fun in the sun" has not only arrived but has snuck half past me without my even taking the plastic off the windows. And all of a sudden I'm struck with the harsh realization that I've spent more time on the toilet in the past year than I have on any floating apparatus, plastic or metal. "Fun" must now be planned, scheduled, prepared for, and had within a set timeframe that never seems long enough and all the while, the things that I "should be doing instead" are screaming at me from the back of my mind guilting me into not fully enjoying my time off. Impulsiveness is no longer genius, it's now irresponsible and cumbersome. And given the challenge, I would have to think long and hard about which two phone calls to make to round up a group of friends - and those calls would likely lead to one voicemail and one raincheck.
What happened? When did life get so hectic, so full of trivial crap that won't mean mean anything in five years, which will seemingly pass by in the time it took to tube down the river five summers ago. When did I choose to take on so many activities that I no longer have the luxury of saying, "let's float down the river today" and instantly have a dozen people in river garb holding rubber tubes and a case of beer standing in my driveway. And if this is just the natural progression of life, how do I buck the trend? Because in the back of my mind, the river calls for me, but I find it perpetually harder to hear over the screaming honey-do list.
I'd search for the answers to these questions myself, but I have to paint the kitchen cabinets tonight.
