I’m a hustler.
Not the Usher kind, like “I’m a hustler, baby!” because that, I can assure you, I am NOT.*
I’m a hustler of the Little League variety, when your little legs were running to first base and the coach was yelling at you to “HUSTLE! HUSTLE!”
That kind. The busy, bustling kind. The don’t stop swimming or you’ll drown kind. I feel like I’m all forward motion and a million things to do and holy SHIT how did today run out of minutes when I’m not DONE yet.
Which, I might mention, is why this post is late.
Here’s what I’ve noticed about my brand of hustler. We get stuff DONE. (Except the occasionally late blog post!) But we can also get a little bit tired. And when we get tired? We either get silly or cranky or sometimes, in a delicious sarcasm smoothie, a bit of both.
But we don’t stop.
Because we can’t.
I honestly don’t know what I think would happen if I slowed it down, but I’m pretty sure it would be terrible. So I don’t do it. Even my vacations are a study in too much activity and constant movement.
“You’re not good at relaxing,” people say to me, like a joke. “Nope!” I say back, always cheerfully, jacked up on 17 cups of coffee and a diet coke, with a book in one hand and my cell phone in my other hand and a to do list before me. “Not even a little!”
And in my head, I can hear my coach: “Hustle, Yellie, Hustle!”
And I think, "It's the only thing I know how to do."
*I suspect Usher Raymond isn’t either, when it comes to it. He doesn’t seem very gangsta, yo.