Where Has My Time Gone?

Oh, Lord do I have a lot to do! Why do I have so much to do? How did being unemployed take away all of my freetime?

NPR recently did a series of stories on leisure. One of the installments I caught was on housework and about time-saving devices (like washing machines) and how they have changed -- in particular -- the role of women in the household, and how they haven't. One particular line from Susan Strasser caught me. She said, essentially, "we have found that time-saving devices have not necessarily contributed to increased leisure time." I don't know why, but that idea really struck me. I hadn't seen that reality so clearly before.

So, I'm busy with my usual volunteer duties and I've added some occasional hourly work (paid?!) to the mix. This year's Oktoberfest is taking up the most time and effort right now. I'll include more details later -- our website should launch soon. Ofest will be on Friday, September 24 and Saturday, September 25 this year -- and oh wow do we have a lot to do!

Black and Blue

So some of you may know that I have klutz tendencies. I remember my mother telling me once about her and my father being concerned about my muscular development as a child. I apparently fell often. They decided to take me to the doctor -- surely there must be something wrong with a little girl who is constantly falling, knocking into things, and has needed stitches enough times to be recognized by name upon entering the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon's Children's Hospital. Apparently, after several informal tests my pediatrician comforted my parents with the news that I had a serious condition of being a klutz.

Fast forward thirty-some-odd years to a couple of weeks ago. I was working on one of our several "project piles" set off on the side table in the dining room. I can't remember what I was looking for -- but it was something that I wanted to find pronto. Upon not finding it, I became frustrated and turned to storm across the dining room to the office to hunt there. Unfortunately, my planned route did not take into account the dining room table that is in the middle of our dining room. My path was immediately and abruptly blocked by said dining room table which made contact with my left thigh. Or my left thigh made contact with it. Regardless, the table was pushed a good two inches off center (which is really impressive when you know that I actually had to push it up hill as our dining room floor is a bit sloped).

I knew immediately that I had done something awful. I knew immediately that it was really going to be bad since my visceral reaction did not include swearing or rubbing the injured thigh. I remember hearing David from the other room -- "You okay?"

I fought the urge to cry. I cursed the dining room table (clearly, it was the table's fault) and tried to figure out how long I could go without looking at my thigh. I was sure I would not be able to handle seeing the bone sticking out of the flesh. Well, that's what it felt like. I'm fairly convinced that had I hit the table with the same force with a bone other than my femur, I would have shattered it. When Dave finally got the chance to see the damage, all he could muster was "Ohhhhhh, Katie, that must hurt!"

It was red and purple within a few minutes, black and blue with red squiggly lines in the middle within a few days. I realized in the days following the incident that I often touch that part of my leg -- something I had never realized before touching it resulted in such searing pain. The bruise has now passed through its rainbow of colors. I still have a gray shadow of a bruise at the exact height of our dining room table just in case I forget too soon.

Another St. Louisan

I attended a choir party the other night. I won't bore you with all the reasons or details. However, at one point I was briefly introduced to a new choir member. Later, she looked across the deck at my shoes and exclaimed, "I love your shoes."

Now, I was wearing one of my all time favorite pairs of shoes -- my red shoes. Well, my first pair of red shoes (I now have a couple). The pair of shoes that I had convinced myself I could not afford, did not deserve, and would not be practical -- as they are red. I do not fit the woman-with-shoe-fetish stereotype, but I was able to come up with a rationalization for buying and wearing these red shoes: I had just completed my master's thesis and it was about time I actually started wearing things that exhibited the personal style that I had always imagined for myself but hid behind and under more practical pieces.

So I've had these red shoes for years and they have been worn and loved and inspired subsequent wardrobe pieces. I occasionally receive compliments on these shoes. This compliment was a little different -- the woman who paid me the compliment came closer to admire the shoes allowing me to see her choice in footwear: my shoe splurge of last fall while down in Urbana at my favorite good-for-your-feet shoe store! Yes, she was wearing these great Dansko's with a button! (I love Dansko everything.)

Okay, but here's the weird part beyond the fact that we appear to be shoe sisters: she grew up in, yes -- wait for it, Webster Groves! I won't bore you with a list of the families that we both know or the fact that she went to my grade school . . . wow, which just now reminds me that the guy from the Oktoberfest committee who is the nephew of my grade school soccer coach also went to my grade school, though long after me. The woman at the choir party also seemed young -- I wonder if they know each other or that they are both at St. Al's.

Funny small world.