I have a bad habit of biting off more than I can chew. Then I find myself whirling around at warp speed nine, trying to write blogs and e-books, translate, teach, and still be a half-way decent housewife and mother.
Of course this doesn’t work, because there are still only 24 hours in a day. I wind up stressed and snappy, and usually unproductive.
Over the years, I’ve frequently sworn that I’d stop, and do one thing at a time like a normal, sensible person. The catch is that I’m neither normal nor sensible, so that doesn’t work either.
Then I tried analysing it. Do I perhaps keep myself terribly busy to avoid facing problems? Nope. Don’t think so. I’m stressed, not depressed. Believe me, I’ve had depression, and I know the difference.
Is it cock-eyed optimism? On some level, am I think that if I really hope and believe, suddenly there’ll be 100 hours in a day?
Nope. Or I’d probably believe in The Secret too.
I’ve finally admitted the obvious. I bite off more than I can chew because I’m greedy. I want the novel and the websites and the e-book and the clean house. I want it all, and I want it now.
And if I don’t watch out, I’ll give myself indigestion.
