I’m retired, so I shouldn’t be so damn busy. But most days I am. Busy as hell. (Sorry, I can’t use the word “busy” without swearing.) I call these frenetic diurnal episodes “do-this do-that days,” because I’m always doing this damn thing or that damn thing: all those chores, tasks, duties, errands, jobs, appointments piling up like so many dirty clothes in the laundry room, clamoring for my attention.

I get tired just thinking about all these … responsibilities. Enough is enough!

My excuse these days is that I’m too old for all this. I simply don’t have the energy I used to have. I remember when I realized that I had to become a list-maker to survive. For the longest time, well into my 30s, I kept everything in my head. Then I started forgetting things, screwing up the grocery shopping or forgetting to return important phone calls. I had to shift my modus operandi from head-centric to pad-and-pen-centric to keep up with an increasingly frenetic world.

“Life became more complicated … children, grandchildren, jobs, houses, taxes. More taxes. Still more taxes,” AP photo/Keith Srakocic

Life became more complicated; salutary but exhausting: children, grandchildren, jobs, houses, taxes. More taxes. Still more taxes. For another 30 years responsibilities accrued, piling up, spilling over. Until I retired. Now, I thought, slipping into a new comfort zone, I could finally relax a bit. I’d write a little, read a lot, nap occasionally, fish when I could, and mow the lawn once a week. My wife and I decided that we only had to do one substantial thing a day (maybe pick up the mail or clean the toilet) to claim we weren’t layabouts.

Oh, how we’d deluded ourselves.

As with everything, life intrudes. Nature abhors a vacuum. And she fills it with chores, tasks, jobs, errands, ad nauseum. Do this, do that. Hardly time to take a break, catch your breath, smell the roses. It’s just “go time” all the time. Go, go, go! Hit the brakes and the world doesn’t screech to a halt, it just screeches: Hurry up, do more, time’s a-wasting!

I used to meditate. Now I cogitate. Thinking, always thinking. And worrying. What do I have to do today? Tomorrow? The next day? And the day after that?

All this hyperactivity has worked its way deep into my subconscious, crept into my dreams. The older I get, the more “frustration dreams” I have. When I was a child I dreamed about flying, like Superman. Now I dream about fleeing, like The Flash. In one dream I’m standing in line for the grocery store’s express lane, scared to death the cashier will realize I have one-too-many items in my cart. Spooked, I turn and run, with the store’s security guard hot on my tail. In mid-step I suddenly realize the air is thick as molasses and I’m moving like a cartoon character in slow motion. I panic at getting caught in a heinous crime. I can’t afford to go to jail, I have way too much to do!

When did my brain stop being my friend and start acting like my timekeeper? Much of this aging process is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. That oft-quoted phrase is attributed to Winston Churchill, who was super busy during the Cold War, trying to understand the motivations of the Soviets. At least he was playing on the big stage, trying to keep the world from bumbling into World War III.

Me, I’m playing on the smallest of life’s stages, just trying to get through the day. Busy as a bee on crack cocaine. In fact, I must stop writing right now – the grass needs trimming, bills need paying, phone messages and emails need checking, the kitchen sink needs unclogging, the garbage needs emptying and, subversively but most importantly, naptime is calling.

Robert Frost said it best in his most famous poem: “I have miles to go before I sleep.” Yep, miles to go. And seeds to sow. Better get crackin’.

Steven Price is a Kennebunkport resident. He can be reached at sprice1953@gmail.com.