I’m melting. Aren’t you? If you’re anywhere in the Midwest like me, you probably are. If you’re anywhere else, you probably are. You might hate the heat like me. You might love it, as some lunatics do. (Shout out to my summer people, you know I still adore you!)

It was even humid inside Target today. I sweat my way through the sandals aisle, the seltzer section, and then the deli, where I was disappointed to find no chicken salad! After shopping with the youngest of The Presh Pair, she and I drove straight to lunch where I cooled myself off with an espresso martini. Such is summer. Cute shoes, cold drinks. I can admit it’s not all bad. But it’s still way too hot.

Every year around this time, I feel good and ready for the ‘Ber Months (SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER, DecemBER). There’s so much to love about those 122 days; don’t even get me started with all the ways. I might never stop. 

But as I sit here on a steamy night in the middle of July, A/C soaking into my every pore, I realize I shouldn’t push for September. I shouldn’t push for next week. I should never push time, period. 

Salvador Dali was on to something when he started painting those melting clocks. The other day I found a post card featuring them, in my desk drawer. It came from the gift shop at Newfields, our art museum that hosted a digitally-immersive Dali exhibit last year. When I saw his art projected all over the walls, the melting clocks stood out to me. They whispered to me. If I were to select an image to represent the most persistent challenge of my life, it would have to be one of those famous melting clocks: to show my warped relationship with Time. (It also visualizes how hot I feel these days!)

I’ve never had a handle on Time. It has eluded my grasp from a young age. I can remember staying up way too late as a kid, watching Johnny Carson on school nights with my mom. She would let me fall asleep on the couch. Those night owl habits led into my teen years when I’d burn the midnight oil, sleep in, then leave my house too late to make it to first period on time. My AP Bio teacher during senior year gave me after-school detention multiple times. I was the only nerd in D-Hall doing my Calculus homework. 

Fast forward 30+ years, if I’ve ever been late to meet you, I regret it. I will never stop trying to do better. In my middle age, I might be improving. I certainly want that for myself, and especially for others. Your time is valuable. So is mine. And it’s fleeting. 

As the girls have grown up, I’ve told them repeatedly: “Time. It’s the one finite resource. You can always make more money. You cannot make more Time.” I imagine it might be one of those mantras they will share with  their own children someday, if only to mock me in a reminiscent way. I would be delighted. 

Tick Tock goes the clock. But where does the time go? I feel like old people say that. I’ve wondered it all my life. 

So I mustn’t push for another month to get here or complain for more hours in my day. I need to own the moment in front of my face for all its glory and even if it’s ugly or sweaty or painful. There are glimmers, even within our more challenging times. 

• Losing my oldest doggie means more attention for the youngest pup. 

• Missing my oldest kid all summer leads to enjoying her company even more once she is home soon. 

• Dealing with difficult people can translate to newfound patience and inner peace.

I won’t lie; that last one is hard for me. I’m gonna’ need some more time…

Meesh 🫠