I haven’t worked on my novel since I got back from my abbreviated trip to Mexico. It doesn’t feel like the right time. Perhaps Monday will work out better; everyone knows that starting things on a Monday increases the chance of success.

Or perhaps not. Monday-next is approaching mid-month; that seems like an awkward time to dive back into something. Perhaps I should wait ‘til the beginning of next month; starting on the first always works out better.

Perhaps I should wait until June. June is the sixth month and that has a nice feeling of symmetry to it. Mid-point of the year, a time to revisit new year’s resolutions and recommit. Maybe that would be the time to get back to it.

Avoiding things is easy for most of us. It gets easier for me when I’m fighting my depression. The urge to do nothing is strong. The tendency to inertia is pronounced. My thoughts tell me I should wait. Wait ‘til the timing is better, wait until I feel right.

Except it’s possible those landmarks won’t ever arrive. It’s probable that my depression will wane, but it’s possible it won’t. At least not for a while. What then? How long do I wait before forcing myself to press on? If history has taught me anything, it’s that the perfect moment will never come.

I will never feel absolutely right. Things will never line up and be “just so”. And while I wait, time passes. It passes faster than we realize.

I was told that, years ago when my son was born. I didn’t believe it then, didn’t pay attention. I should have.

The days are long. They’re even longer when I’m depressed. The minutes tick by agonizingly slowly and the hours drag. I mark time ‘til I can go to bed, only to wake up and do it all over again. The days are long. The years, however, pass quickly.

Soon, I will be fifty. The milestone is a mere seven weeks away and I’m moderately shocked. How did I get here? How is it that I’ve lived half a century? What, exactly do I have to show for my time on earth? More than some, less than others, and less than I’d hoped.

My hopes will continue to suffer and my expectations will continue to be dashed if I keep putting things off, waiting for the right time. I’m better than I was. I’m waiting less than I used to for the perfect moment, the perfect mood, the perfect body, and the perfect weight.

But when I’m depressed it’s easy to let the inertia take hold. It’s easy to put things off ‘til tomorrow, or the day after that, or never. It’s easy to wait for the perfect moment that will never come.

Unfortunately, time doesn’t wait for me to take action. It doesn’t put itself on hold while I wait for my moment. I’ve had my few days of wallow. It’s okay to take those, I think. But it’s now time to jump back into the business of living. Time to get on with getting on. Time to get back to the book.