On stealing time

Some thoughts from my untidy kitchen table

A fuzzy picture of my first Salsa teacher, Sharon, May 2013.

My husband, Mark, went away for the best part of a week recently. It’s perhaps only when he isn’t around, that I truly appreciate his support. He not only helps me run the excellent taxi-service we provide our children, but he does the cooking in our house. The kids and I were relieved when he returned home and plated up something other than pasta or poached eggs. 

On the night of our usual weekly Salsa class, there were twenty-four hours’ worth of dirty dishes piled next to the dishwasher, and overflowing dirty linen baskets in all three bedrooms. I did not have time for such frippery as dancing, and almost certainly could have used the time more productively.

But within five minutes of moving my body to the Cuban beats, my worries about how I would simultaneously transport our daughter and son to two different locations the next morning, fell away.

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I credit Salsa with pulling me through one of the most challenging periods of my life. Almost a decade has passed since I peeled myself off the sofa and went to my first ever lesson. Recently separated from my first husband and in the midst of a stressful merger at work, it was an unlikely moment to begin a new hobby, but something told me to put my wine down, and my dancing shoes on anyway.

My life is relatively crisis-free for now, but the part of me that believes I should be more on top of my domestic and work-related responsibilities still hollers. It disapproves of the state of my kitchen and the two hundred unfiled emails in my inbox. But if I am to meet every requirement it demands of me, I would never dance.

Last week I went to the cinema alone, at 4pm on a weekday. I have thought about taking myself on this particular date on many occasions, and have stood myself up repeatedly. But not this time.

I booked my ticket three days in advance to increase the likelihood of me actually going. Switching off my laptop at 3.30pm, rather than pushing through to my usual self-imposed Friday deadline, was liberating. Venturing into the world of Hollywood, whilst the working day carried on without me, felt decadent. I stretched out on my reclining seat in isolated splendor and didn’t have to share my bucket of popcorn with anyone.

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I must steal time for my creative longings. I’ve been self-employed for more than seven years, and this year is the first I have blocked out time during my working week, dedicated to creativity. Whether that be honouring my own, or enjoying other people’s.

It is no longer a nice-to-do. It is something far more essential. Like eating. And anticipating my weekly Salsa class is like the thought of the weekly supermarket trip before online shopping was invented. Who wants to turn off the TV, change out of their joggers, and traipse to the shops, particularly at nine o’clock at night. Not me. But once I get home, and survey the replenished fridge, I am always glad that I did. 

Giving myself permission to enjoy a film in the middle of the day, has expanded my map of what else might be possible. Perhaps next time I will take myself to see a musical in the West End. I might even make a day of it.

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Stealing has been the most apt word to describe my relationship with time this year. I have taken increasing joy from how I have spent it, but it often feels as though I am doing something wrong. As if I am flouting the rules and going against what I am supposed to do, as a ‘good’, responsible person. 

But after almost twelve months of stealing time, and not being arrested, I am seeing that perhaps it was mine all along. It was sitting there, waiting to be claimed.

With love and shimmies,

Claire

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