It's become a pattern, an annoying part of my personality that follows me into middle age, whether I am conscious of it or not.
Every new year, the first of every month, every Monday and even just every morning I feel my brain saying it.
A fresh start.
A new day to be a better person, get more done, exercise, eat right, be kind, read a book, visit a friend, help someone in need, clean something or accomplish a nagging to-do-list task. It doesn't matter whether I face a crazy day of errands and freelance work until the wee hours near bedtime, or if it's a lighter day when I could really grab some relaxing time.
My brain just tells me it will be different.
And I seize the hours at the beginning of the "new" with great intentions -- full of energy, caffeine and the attitude that I can take on the world.
The clock continues to tick away the minutes and hours, no faster or slower than before.
But I feel the loss of time as it slides out the door. Time I won't get back.
At the end of the new day/new week/fresh new month I feel the same way.
Like I didn't show up. Like I sat on the bench, watching the game from the sidelines.
Put me in, coach, I'm ready to play.
This time, I have to make some changes -- before this amazing and wonderful life I have been gifted just slips like sand through my fingers.
I am going to try to work smarter, play harder, laugh more and slow down a wee little bit.
Middle age is a cruel BFF. She energizes me one day and defeats me the next. I am not finished parenting, but I haven't started to care for my parents yet. My body is changing, but my mind is still young. My young friends make me laugh and yearn to have been born a decade later.
But then I wouldn't have what I have.
And what I have here in my tiny piece of the world is pretty damn awesome.
I'm just on a mission to make it even more awesome.
This piece originally appeared on Old Tweener