I feel like my life no longer has any margins. I'm not sure when it happened, but lately it seems that on any given day of the week I can double- or even triple-book my calendar and still not be keeping up. Tonight I shirked two invitations, both activities I'm sure I would have enjoyed. I told myself I needed to stay home and knock out some work so I wouldn't have to do it this weekend with Joel in town. I told myself it was a night to take care of housekeeping: cleaning up, doing laundry, actually going for a run for the first time this week. I think I would have felt really great if I had actually followed this plan. Instead, I . . . well, here's the thing: I'm not really sure what all I did tonight. I partially did what I planned: I sorted laundry, but didn't actually put any of the dirty clothes in the wash; I made a small dent in the pile of applications I need to grade for work, but didn't finish the stack I intended to; I put on my workout clothes, but didn't make it to the gym. I sent a few emails, I chatted briefly with a friend, I ate a bowl of cereal, and watched bits and pieces of this week's American Idol. It's not that I think there's anything wrong with spending a Thursday night at home, not being especially productive. And it's not that I still have these other things looming over me, the things that I didn't get done, the people I didn't see, and looking forward I see no space to slot them into. I think it's that my time somehow no longer seems like my own, and my life seems to be moving forward without my steering it. I guess, really, it's all about the control freak in me losing control.

As I read back over this paragraph I just wrote, I'm annoyed at my whiny tone. Honestly, my life has been only good and more than good lately, and the lack of margins speaks more to a fullness of life that than to an existential crisis. Can I chalk this post up to tiredness and leave it at that?