“We’re going to have a pull-out day,” announces my department chair.

“Won’t that be unsatisfying and ineffective?” asks the 13-year-old boy who lives in my head. I don’t say it out loud. Not this time. I catch the eye of my coworker who knows I’m thinking it, though, and he shakes his head at me. In disgust? In mock disgust? I can never tell if they’re laughing with me or at me. Or near me.

“Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.” Chuck Close. I have no idea who that is, but I like what he has to say.

My husband doesn’t think I spend enough time playing with our kids. My students don’t think I get their papers back to them fast enough. My fitness instructor thinks I need to cross train. I think I need to do more of most everything, less of everything else. When I have a free moment, it is underscored by the knowledge that it is actually a stolen moment. There is no such thing as a free moment in my life right now. I’m not sure how that happened. My house is a mess, my dog needs to go to the vet, my kids need their shots, I have 4 assignments backed up at work, I have to write a test (TWO versions to curb the cheating).

I wish there was a pill for this. I can’t focus on any of it. I get a few minutes into something and the need to pick up another task is almost like a physical itch. Can grown-ups have ADD? Can I have some Adderall please? I hear it did wonders for Lindsay Lohan and Tori Spelling. Maybe some Ativan to help with the sinking, chest-crushing feelings I get 6 times a day? Do they make a pill for the despair that comes with aging and watching my hair turn gray and men’s attention turn to younger women? I’ll take 30 of those a month, too, please.

I want a new drug.