I think of everything in terms of it. It takes me .1 to get to my office by car from my home. It takes .5 to drive one way downtown. A divorce intake or bankruptcy intake costs me an hour. A bath is .4. Dinner and clearing dishes 1.5. My work outs to the gym and back about 1.5 hours. It takes me .2 to get to the girl’s high school and back. I usually try and sleep about 8 hours. An average date with great conversation usually runs about 4 hours. To write my blog usually about 2 hours. To work on my book about 4 hours. To grocery shop about 1.5 hours. A good movie about 1.5 to 2 hours. Spending time with my girls at night about 2 hours. Running to soccer practice and games 4 hours.

Paulo Coelho wrote 11 minutes. That was his calculation as to how long it takes us to actually have sex.

I suppose he used a stopwatch.

I never thought of timing sex until now.

I guess this is how I, a lawyer lady, stacks up and adds up all of her spent time.

In a sense I acknowledge that this is a sick way to go about living. To weigh and measure everything in terms of time. When my clients complain about their bill and the time spent. They are not just trying to take away money—they are stealing my time.

I can’t give it to anyone else. It’s been used up and wasted. I can’t get that back. That .2 is forever gone. It’s not like I can ask my client for my .2 time back. I can’t use that .2 toward anything or anyone else.

So this week I have been wasting precious minutes being in and out of sadness. It is a sadness that seizes me at random. I feel my whole chest get tight. My eyes just fill up with tears. It is hard for me to breathe. These events last minutes. I lose concentration and focus.

My favorite aunt (if I could say I had a favorite) has been diagnosed with cancer. It’s stage three and in her lymph nodes. I wonder about my time with her. How much do I have left? I love this woman. I really really love her. I know that she really loves me. I cherish my aunt. I am filled with grief and am so consumed by it. I want to weep into my pillow and sleep. She has been so kind to me. She loves and adores my girls. She bakes me pies and cookies. She makes me stain glass art that I hang on my windows. This lovely woman crocheted a soft blanket for me. She is my second mother. I want more of her and her time. I hope that I didn’t waste any of it. I am selfish. I know.

I think of Salvador Dali’s time explosion. The clock’s inner workings and numbers are flug out into the desert. I wonder what he was thinking when he painted it. I am mad at him.

I hate this world sometimes. I don’t like this pain and loss. I am no good at it. I don’t like the thought of this beautiful person suffering because this person is someone I know and love. Her ticket is up— I feel this like I feel everything. I feel the color. It is cold and very black.

I hate Salvador Dali and his time explosion. I hate that hour glass. I hate the hour of death. I hate the second hand.

In my hate and sadness I feel useless. There is nothing I can do to stop the clock.

I am reminded I need to carefully pick and choose how I spend my minutes.