The absence of The Pit

You know what's nice? The pit is not there.

It used to be that every Sunday night was accompanied by the Pit. The pit is a cavernous knot of anxiety and dread that starts in your stomach and slowly grows bigger and bigger as Monday morning approaches (sometimes it can start as early as Saturday afternoon). Each minute incrementally compounds the guilt and despair, adding tension like rubber bands onto a tightly wound rubber band ball.

But guess what? Sunday night. No pit. (More like a dent, maybe, or a wading pool...)

Which is not to say I haven't been fooled before. There have been times when I've lulled myself into a false sense of security about the week ahead and then the first day back has hit me like a ton of bricks.

But after swooning enough times in the ugly face of the Big Bad To Do list, eventually you begin to realize that, one way or another, the important things manage to get done. You realize that the To Do list doesn't have an endpoint, try as you might to reach it. The endpoint is a mirage, and the Big To Do is actually a treadmill. The trick is knowing when to hop on and hop off.

That in mind, I'd better go hop on my treadmill for a bit, because there's a load of bricks somewhere with my name on it that's itchin' for a good smackdown.