I squander where my time has gone

For the past week or so, I haven’t been living up to my self-imposed moniker of Wandering Jew. Nope. Instead, I’ve been the Squandering Jew. I’ve been wasting time. I’ve been holed up in my fabulous apartment, hair piled haphazardly atop my head a la Pebbles Flintstone in a stupor … shuffling along in slouchy pajama-y pants, gray V-neck T-shirts, and socks too thick to wear with boots … forgetting to eat, but drinking glass after refreshing glass of Crystal Light lemonade (yellow) (for the record, I prefer the pink, but the yellow is easier to find) (probably because everyone else is hogging the pink) (bastards). Anyway, I’ve barely/rarely left the premises except to go to the gym and Pilates. I may as well live in the midwest for all I’m taking advantage of everything this fantastic city has to offer.
What’s particularly vexing is that, aside from the digital camera and computer software purchases I mentioned yesterday, I haven’t done anything “productive” while playing the part of the hermit. I didn’t even do anything “around the house”. I could’ve unpacked the boxes that have been imprisoned in the front closet since I moved into this place in November 2000. I could’ve filed all of my paid bills. I could’ve clipped those exercise articles from “Shape”, punched three holes down their side, and organized them into a spiffy three-ring binder. But I didn’t. I have no idea what the hell I did.
I find that I’ve been treating my time like a huge totebag, tossing in a whole lotta nada that I can’t even list. I have the space in that bag, so it doesn’t matter what I throw into it. This. That. The occasional other thing. My time is starting to resemble my trusty ol’ Kipling gym bag — the one that’s been hosting more dead batteries than live ones, an assortment of peeled-off protective plastic seals from water bottles, and a red plastic press-on fingernail that lights up when you tap it against a surface. I would do better to regard my time as a tiny, elegant evening bag, and to wisely and thoughtfully choose what wins a place inside it and what gets left behind.
The problem with my having so much “free time” is that I tend to think, far too freely, Tomorrow is another day. That if I waste one day, there will always be another one later. Just like that subway sign that implores us not to run to catch the train, because there will be another one just like it coming soon. Maybe my problem is that I’ve heard that hideous song “Tomorrow” one too many times (“Uhh, honey, I hate to tell you, but … one is one too many times”).
So I vow to you that tomorrow I am going to grab the ol’ bull(shit) by the horns and do something I absolutely could not do outside of New York. This means, of course, that I will not permit myself to go into a Starbucks.
Hey, you didn’t expect me to dump everything out of that totebag, did you?