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My Anti-Meteoric Rise From The Ashes
Flying forward, never straight.
It was just another mundane Monday morning and I already frittered away most of it.
My Shrimps, the nickname I lovingly gave my dynamic duo, are the smallest four-legged creatures in my orbit since my first childhood pet, a dachshund this Dorothy-wannabe named Toto.
Oscar and Clementine are also the very sweetest so waited unabatingly for me to get my shit together already.
They need their morning walkies well before noon and today we were pushing it.
Only today we’d learn synchronicity, serendipity, and cosmic timing are rarely, if ever predictable.
I’ve learned to dodge my usual angst and guilt for still not following my new and improved morning routine—the one I so thoroughly and painstakingly created many moons ago.
With the help of Google calendar, color-coding, and reminders, I created an impressive, well-balanced diet of how to consume 24 hours on any given day.
Effectively.
My minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, my 7-day regime springs from the wells of discipline, productivity, and grinding—not as sexy a font as the Fountain of Youth, but these are high-fiber if not slightly bitter waters I find myself navigating today…
