And at the same time I can remember being told by my grandmother from a very young age that “Everyone has the same amount of time. It’s all in how you use it.”

I honestly didn’t believe her then, and while I know on one level she was right, there is still something inside me that denies her.

I am certain those perfectly coifed, pressed and prepared people we all know have found some hidden reservoir of extra time, somewhere. Otherwise how can they look they way they do, sound the way they sound and accomplish the many things they accomplish?

I have no such secret reservoir of time and so go about wrinkled, rumpled, disorganized and frequently tardy, running from place to place with my crumpled list of many things to do in my hand.

My lists are my way of trying to deal with my lack of time, but it has been suggested to me by the fellow I’m married to that they may be a part of my problem. “Why don’t you just DO something instead of sitting there writing it all down?” he asks. “You spend more time writing than you do doing anything.”

Well, as far as I’m concerned, that just goes to show how little he knows of my days.

If I don’t write it all down I will almost certainly forget to pick someone up at the junior high or drop someone’s prescription off at the pharmacy or mail the bills or get cat food or wash football uniforms or well, you get the picture.

I won’t remember until it’s too late, which is usually when I’m climbing into bed with my book, ready to read myself into peaceful sleep. That is not the time to be told someone left sweaty football clothes in my trunk, and they need to be washed by 7 a.m. tomorrow.

There is a key to my problems in there somewhere and I know it has to do with organization, but my mind doesn’t seem to follow the proper paths for an organized result.

And so instead I keep my hair as short as is socially acceptable for a woman of my advanced years in a small midwestern town, I tend to wear fabrics that are supposed to wrinkle a little, and blame the rest on a creative mind. I refuse to acknowledge that maybe I have a tendency to bite off more than I can chew, and go on saying I just don’t have as much time as other people.

But deep down inside, I can hear my grandmother’s voice and her admonition about time.

Maybe, in the second half of my life, I will learn.