​In another life, when I was a spanking new college grad and took the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan every weekday, I had this boss.
 
Just a tad older than yours truly, David always arrived before me and always left after me.  Not only that, he wrote books—swashbuckling sci-fi yarns that actually got published.  Our assignments weren’t easy-peasy, so I knew he wasn’t penning these manuscripts during the day. 
 
After he told me he worked on them at night, I asked him when he slept.
 
“Sleep?” he said, somewhat bemused at my naiveté.     
 
“Sleep!  I never sleep!  You’re kidding, right?  Who sleeps in New York?”
 
I still remember this story when I think that even today, living in a sweet little beach town, I find it difficult to relax.
 
It’s not that I can’t make the time.
 
While there are always chores and errands to run, I no longer have a small child to attend to.  The Hubster is also perfectly capable of taking care of himself (although when it’s time to sew on buttons, iron shirts and fix dinner, I’m the more capable one).  I also have the huge blessing of no longer needing to work full time.  
 
Yet I still make to-do lists—either on a legal pad, or in the tiny pink notebook nestled in my purse, or even in my head—every day.  (And for those who believe that living in a beach town means living in a bubble, it doesn’t. That’s especially true now, when things to do always include calling and emailing and sending postcards to my elected representatives.) 
 
And why is it that when those tasks are not accomplished, I somehow feel not just not industrious, but lazy and guilty?
 
It’s not because I don’t know how important it is to take time off for my mind, body and most important, spirit.  That’s the reason I’m doing my best to enjoy my grown up coloring book; getting to the library more, and trying to take one day of rest every week, otherwise known as a stop day. 
 
Yet, perhaps I still feel restless because I’m realizing that no one’s mortality is infinite, most especially mine.  
 
(The Hubster noted my fidgety nature early on.  For our first Christmas together, he presented me with a hummingbird ornament.  “This,” he said, “is your spirit animal.”) 
 
After all, we all have such little time on this planet. 
 
Thinking about that, there’s no way I’ll ever get around to reading everything I want to read; writing everything I want to write, and seeing every movie I want to see.  There’s also little chance that I’ll be able to travel to all of the places I daydream about.
 
So instead of trying so hard to make every day a “full one,” maybe it’s time to give some wiggle room to my definition of “being productive” and “getting things done.”
 
This needed adjustment became even clearer when I recently read about New York City police detective
Steven McDonald.
 
In the summer of 1986, McDonald was a 29-year-old cop who had been a patrolman for less than two years.  Working for the NYPD was more than a job: it was family tradition, with both his grandfather and father once serving on the same city police force.  It was also a time when the Big Apple was struggling with soaring rates of homicide—nearly 6,000 murders that year.  (In 2016, there were 335.)
 
On July 12, the world that McDonald knew came to an abrupt end.   
 
Patrolling Central Park on that sunny day, McDonald was shot by a 15-year-old teenager named Shavod Jones. The kid fired twice at the officer, then, standing over McDonald’s crumpled body, shot a third time.  
 
“A doctor spoke to my wife and me,” McDonald would later report.  “He said that I would be paralyzed from the neck down.  I would be unable to move for the rest of my life.”  To make matters even worse, McDonald had been married just eight months, and his 23-year-old wife, Patti, was three months pregnant. (Six months and 10 days after the shooting, which was also the day that Jones was sentenced to a maximum of 10 years, son Conor Patrick was born.  A few decades later, he chose to follow his father into the NYPD.  One week after his release from prison, at age 25, Jones died in a motorcycle crash.)    
 
Here comes the part of the story that amazes me:  Steven McDonald forgave Shavod Jones.
 
In fact, remaining on as a first-grade detective, and traveling in a motorized wheelchair and the aid of a respirator to
help him breathe, McDonald dedicated the next three decades to a purposeful path—one that probably didn’t include making to-do lists.
 
Instead, until his death at age 59 earlier this month, McDonald made the choice to speak about love.   
 
He did so by talking to rookie and veteran cops alike, telling them to always think about safety—but to also always
treat everyone with respect and kindness.  He believed that cops could—and do—make a positive difference in people’s lives.  He took the same message to hundreds of schools, and also made pilgrimages of reconciliation to Northern Ireland and the Middle East.  McDonald even kept up a prison correspondence with Jones, who had had a troubled history of delinquency and emotional turmoil. So revered was McDonald that on the day of his funeral, thousands of fellow officers filed into St. Patrick’s Cathedral to pay their respects.
 
There are a myriad of ways to be productive.  I’m still wrapping my head around a lot of this, but maybe, the true definition has little to do with being in constant motion like a hummingbird.  
 
Instead, it might very well mean this: no matter how you choose to spend your time, don’t waste it.
 
What is your definition of productivity?  I’d love to hear your stories and comments! 

​This Girl Clown knows that there are really only two reasons to miss work. 
 
One is to celebrate your birthday. 
 
I’ve felt this way for a long time.  Come to think of it, I probably got the idea that our day of birth should always be the most special day of the year after discovering Dr. Seuss’s classic 1959 book, Happy Birthday to You!  
 
In this magical Technicolor story, a little boy in the land of Katroo (or maybe it’s another planet; that’s never made clear) is whisked away by The Great Birthday Bird.  This feathered friend then takes the child through an enchanted day, including a stop at The Birthday Flower Jungle; a skyway ride pulled by tightrope walking goats, and a dive into the famous  Mustard-Off Pools (after gorging on hot dogs on a spool).
 
Finally, after day is done, The Birthday Bird flies the child home—happier, richer and fatter—snuggled sound asleep in what looks like the comfiest dog bed around.       
 
So if the anniversary of your birth falls on a workday, please, life is too short. 
 
And since very few of us know how many birthdays we have left, play hooky and revel in the things that make you happy.  (Just make sure to plan ahead, and that cake and ice cream are in the mix.)
 
The other reason isn’t festive—as a matter of fact, it’s horrible.     
 
That’s when you’re down with a nasty cold or flu. 
 
Given that there are more than 200 different strains of these viruses waiting to pounce on us at any given time, we’ve all been here.  (Life and death emergencies, of course, are an entirely different ball of wax.)      
 
Now, there are those—and I was once in this arena—who not only come to work feeling achy and out of sorts, but show up hacking and sneezing around everyone in their path.    
 
This is definitely never A Good Thing to Do.
 
I learned this lesson while working on my first television show. 
 
Our offices were in a fancy Hollywood high rise with windows that couldn’t be opened, so we all breathed the same stale, recirculated air. (Who says that working in TV isn’t glamorous?) When a co-worker got really sick, but still came to work, it was guaranteed that I’d catch whatever she had.  Predictably, I soon had her horrible bug, but because it was my first gig of this kind, and I was terrified of being let go, I, too, kept showing up. 
 
When I finally realized that I had to go home, I was too weak to do much on my own.  After not answering my phone for days, my mother drove from my childhood home to fetch me, where she fended off calls from my boss who threatened to fire me; made me eat clean food, and insisted I stay in bed for days on end.    
 
The experience taught me that losing a job (in the end, I didn’t) is far better than losing one’s health. 
 
Still, being home sick isn’t how I prefer to spend my time. 
 
For one thing, there’s the expense. Even when it’s not necessary to bring out The Big Guns (seeing a doctor to score antibiotics, which I’ll only do when forced to), there are always lozenges, Kleenex and sleeping aids to buy.  There are also cans of chicken noodle soup (oodles of noodles are required), orange tea, fresh lemons and honey. 
 
And then, be prepared for the inevitable falling behind—something that those of us who run households can relate to.
 
Laundry doesn’t get done.  Neither does washing dishes, grocery shopping and paying bills. Then, knowing that these tasks, and so many more, will all have to wait until feeling well enough to do any of them—when there will then be double the work—leaves me unsettled. 
 
So, while some folks will insist that my only job is to get better (and my colds are usually three days coming, three days here, and three days going), I feel utterly depleted and completely unproductive. 
 
For one thing—and this is a tough one to explain—the light is different.
 
Usual events that aren’t a big deal (a dog barking outside for no discernible reason, a dumb Facebook post, missing my daily walks) now make me way sadder than they ought to make me.  With my schedule out of whack, I know I’m more vulnerable when I’m sick.  But as the years pass, I also sink into a bit of a depression.  In other words, there’s a negative mental component that simply wasn’t there when I was younger.  (Friends the same age tell me this is true for them as well.) 
 
I wish I knew how to fight harder against this part of a cold. 
 
Listening to happy music; reading a favorite book, or even watching a funny movie or television show, doesn’t help as much as they used to.  Telling myself, over and over and over, that I’m bound to feel better sooner than later is really the only thing that keeps the light from going away completely.
 
Is there a lesson to all of this? 
 
Absolutely.
 
I’d much rather miss work because it’s my birthday. 
 
How do you celebrate your birthday?  How, too, do you battle the mental negativity of a cold?  I look forward to your stories and comments!