Epi-funny

Months before the weeklong national holiday which was last week, I'd mentally committed myself to do nothing but get down to reading my latest magazine issues —something which I've never done. A lot of periodicals lie on my bedside table practically unread, and if at all, only by way of skimming. It is not something that I am happy about because I'd every intention of reading them which is why I got them in the first place. But when you have no time, and cannot find time to sit down and read, there's no choice but to let the reading materials pile up to the ceiling.

I subscribe to seven magazines: four monthlies and three weeklies. On top of that, there's also the occasional (or quite frequent) impulse-buys of other mags that have interesting covers and features. Below is an image of this week's/month's pile. (Yes, I read men's magazines, too!)



In anticipation of the long holiday, I envisioned long hours spent in the cafe, poring over pages after pages, finally knowing what the cover stories are all about. I confidently thought that I'd successfully finish all my readings for this month — at least.

The much-awaited week came and went. And so did my plan. All I can say was I did more than skimming, which means I was able to read more than I regularly do, which means if I normally get to read only the sidebar articles, or the really short sections, I'd managed to finish at least a few full articles this time. This is quite frustrating considering how save for the usual never-ending household drudgery, I didn't get any other thing done during the week.

I am beginning to think that I am not giving enough time to myself. It seems that I don't know how to step on the brake when I need to. I spend too much time doing things for others, taking care of others that there's so little left for myself. This does not mean I want to start being selfish and stop caring for the people around me. I just think there's the need for balance and that I shouldn't embrace all responsibilities as though I were the only person capable of them.

I'll most likely go crazy one day if I continue spending my life in this kind of "martyrdoom." It would be even crazier, a little scary, and nowhere near pitiful to be referred to as the girl who went cuckoo because she couldn't read all her magazines when she wanted to.