Or... not!
Photo by Angela7dreams.

Last month, I spoke at my alma mater about freelance writing. The request letter from the high school was helpful and precise: I was to inform the students about a “typical day.”

So I gathered several digi-photos of me at a book signing, me wrapped in a tipsy embrace with my Random House publicist, me propping my computer up against a thatch-shaded picnic table on the sugar shores of Cocoa Beach. And then I digi-ditched them. I had half an hour to address fifteen-year-old me, and she was going to hear the truth of it all.

What is my day? This is my day.

6 AM
This is my marriage bed. It is half empty because my husband is an air traffic controller and has already been at work for 45 minutes. In one shift, he is responsible for more lives than a surgeon will be for perhaps his entire career. The pressure is immediate, intense, and constant. For this, by the end of his career in 2028, he will receive over $100,000 a year.

My half is not empty because I have been up until 4:30 AM filing an overnight deadline piece. In one article, I was responsible for more words than some people write for publication in an entire lifetime. The pressure is immediate, intense, and constant. But unlike him, if I screw up, only commas die, and so I will receive the grocery money for two weeks. If the invoice goes through.

10 AM

Four-thirty. AM.

11:30 AM
Good morning! It’s a new day! What sayeth my social network this fine morn?

Why, I can’t log in to site where I’m supposed to submit some essay grades because the high-speed internet connection has slowed to speeds usually seen on steamboats paddling against the current of the mighty Mississippi! Well, no matter. I’ll just call the IT depart– oh, wait a minute.

Noon
Freelance writing provides a great many exercise options, among them frantic deadline typing (cardio training), stretching the index finger to hit the F5 key (flexibility), and laughing very hard at emails from students who want to know “when is that one essay thingie do, I lost that piece of paper you gave us with that info, thnk u” (ab work).

But there’s very little weight training available, unless you count forceful clicking in response to the essay questions, which kind of ceases to amuse after the first fifty or so. There’s no room in the budget for a gym membership, and so it’s up to me, my 5-pound weights, and a workout DVD featuring an unholy, lipo-toned woman who yells at me to “feel the work.”

1 PM
Nearly four hundred different people have emailed me a link to a news article about a man who was arrested for motoring through a drive-thru restaurant without any clothes on. In nearly every single subject line is the following: “Saw this, thought of you.”

2 PM
Time to consult with my Department of Research and Development

3PM
Whenever people express envy over your ability to dodge commute time, cubicles, or corporate retreats, you have my heartiest permission to show them this picture. This is now my corporate retreat. I’ve attended the kind which do not involve sweatpants, and have found that the two have a great deal in common, once you get right down to it.

4 PM
More naked-bloke-in-the-restaurant emails.

6 PM
I must pause in my income generation and begin a complete, nutritious meal for my husband and me to enjoy. This evening, possibly because of all the exercise, I am feeling more energetic than usual, so I’m taking the time to prepare something truly special. That’s right: We’re having food which requires forks. Light the candles and get the camera.

7:30 PM-9 PM
Quality Spouse Time. The cover charge at the nearest dance club is $15 a person, also known as an enormous chunk of last week’s income.

We have been married eight months. How I pray that the spark never, ever goes away.

9 PM-4:30 AM
Creative high gear. What I gain in commute time, I shall lose in sanity.

There seems to be no further developments in the naked driver story, but I can trust my readers to keep me apprised. Two articles are due tomorrow. One has been on my to-do list for six weeks. The other was offered yesterday. This seemed like a totally feasible course of action at the time.

Oh, I’ll get it done. I have to, and I will give thanks for it. Sweatpants don’t just buy themselves.

Mary Beth Ellis is the author of Drink to the Lasses (www.drinktothelasses.com). She runs www.BlondeChampagne.com from the Washington D.C. area.