On my way to work this morning I was grumbling to myself: “I don’t have enough time”. “There’s too much to do and I can’t get it done.” When would I do laundry, grocery shopping, write thank you notes and deal with the growing pile on my desk? I could feel the grumpy turning to suffering. A problem. Really, I thought, a problem. I was thinking of all the chores that had piled up because I went to the Berkshires last weekend and then a day later to New York City for four days and then, yes can you believe it--I head to Cape Cod tomorrow?
Then it hit me. I do have a problem—a luxury problem. The complication of my life is having a social life, enticing travel schedule and work I love and yes, it’s true—I can’t get the laundry done between trips. Poor me. Suffering.
But for at least 20 minutes in the car I believed that my life was hard and that I had so much to do and not enough time and that the laundry and my to-do lists were a problem.
And they are. A luxury problem.