much too much

When things get busy, I get forgetful. Really forgetful. Stupidly forgetful. When I was studying for my Ph.D. exams—the lowest point of my existence—I let the exams dominate my consciousness to the point at which I couldn’t keep anything else straight. I’d show up to teach the class I’d been teaching all semester an hour late.
I’d forget dentist appointments and I’d forget to return calls, for months on end. It
was ugly.

So as I walked home from the gym yesterday—all sweaty and gross because for some reason I decided it would be faster to shower at home—I fished around in my backpack for my keys. I checked every pocket. Scrounged around in bowels of the bag (where I did manage to turn up the watch I’ve been looking for since February). They weren’t there. I knew they weren’t there. I knew I’d forgotten them. The tears started welling up as I walked a little faster home. By the time I got to door, I was inconsolable and irate. Where were my damn keys? Or what about the spares? The building manager was gone and the ever-inebriated maintenance guy said it would take him an hour to come back to town and he’d charge me $50. My doorman—who in a year has never uttered more than four words to me—kept saying “oh baby, don’t worry. Don’t you worry a thing.” I probably should have been indignant that he was calling me “baby,” but really, I just sort of liked the way it sounded. J would tell you that the only reason I was upset was because I was going to have to shell out fifty bucks for being an idiot. But really I was upset about what this little episode suggested: that’s it’s all gotten to be just way too much.

There’s the wedding, sure, but the real stress right now is getting through this enormous book project for the college. It’s big, like 350 pages big. And there are a thousand things left to be done, not to mention 30 more years of content to uncover, transcribe, edit, arrange. And here’s the rub: I was supposed to be done before I left for the wedding. But as each day passes and more work rather than less appears, I have a feeling it’s not going to be done on time. The schedule was too ambitious from the start, especially as I was expected to teach a new class--and teach it well--this semester. I was also formulating an enormous conference for September and trying in the early hours to actually get out my own work. It’s just been too much, way too much.

When Stephen, the surprisingly sober maintenance guy, showed up to let me last night, I told him that in writing that check for $50, I was handing over a little piece of my soul. He wasn’t amused. After I shut the door and forced myself to breathe, I remembered in a flash: my damned spare keys are with the damned doorman. I left them there on Friday when I thought a friend was coming to town. So I just paid fifty bucks not because I locked myself out, but because I forgot to mention to the “baby”-calling doorman that my keys were in his little drawer, 3 feet away from me as I cried on the bench.

I sprinted downstairs and nearly out of breath, bellowed to the doorman, “you have my keys. My keys are in your drawer.” At that moment he looked upon me with a mixture of pity and amusement, “oh baby, you workin' too hard.”

This baby is certainly working too hard.