This doctor appointment I have next week has put me almost as far behind as a week and a half of vacation did last month. My mind seems to have taken semi-permanent leave of its duties. I have all the time in the world to get caught up now, but the only thing I can think about is what's going to happen next Tuesday morning at 8:30.

I have some reports I should be working on for the Boss, who doesn't even know yet that I won't be available Tuesday. I've been able to get away with a low output of productive work lately because he's been on the road himself. He has a temporary office set up at his daughter's house, where he's overseeing some renovations.

He thinks he's getting as much done there as he usually does in his own office. I'm willing to let him believe that, but I know better. I know that about half the times I've tried to reach him, he's been unavailable. If it takes some of the pressure of my back, I'm happy to keep this whole unfortunate situation bathed in a rosy glow.

If he wants to believe we're working at full capacity, I won't let on that neither one of us is really rolling. (If he were the only one dragging us down, I might have a different attitude about it.)

Another thing I could be doing is catching up on reading back entries of my favorite journals. I never quite managed to bridge the gap created by my vacation. I'm reading some entries grossly out of order simply because I couldn't wait to read the latest ones but also didn't want to miss the older ones.

I seem to have no priorities whatsoever. I started by reading the journals of people on my list first, but that left out some wonderful writers (and readers), so the process got more and more haphazard as the weeks have gone on. I finally have a routine that keeps me more or less current and occasionally uncovers gems that I missed while I was at the lake.

Somehow I've managed to keep up with personal email, but I've never considered that a burden, for two reason: I don't get all that much mail, and it's almost always positive and encouraging. If I owe email to anyone, it's probably because one of the filters in my mail program has sent their message to the wrong folder. I haven't really perfected the filtering system yet.

As for sitting down and reading a book, I hardly do that at all these days. TiVo is partly to blame for this, of course, since it records so many movies that I spend more time than I should checking out its recommendations. Usually they're on target, although I did have to slap its hands and stop it from recording Son in Law today (even if it is Pauly Shore's best movie).

That's not much of an excuse for not reading. I came home from the lake halfway through The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and I haven't moved my bookmark in three weeks. I have a pile of other books that I want to get to. Some of them are borrowed, so it would be unbearably rude of me to keep them stacked on my end table while I watch things like Final Destination (which wasn't really bad for a teenage slasher flick) and Cold Hearts (which sadly wasn't the best teenage vampire movie I've ever seen).

All of this is just to remind myself that there may be life beyond my doctor appointment. I'm worried, though, and not just about the humiliation of having to disrobe and bend over. I'm worried about what the test might find, and what it might mean.

I took a leap of faith today and asked Mom to go ahead and buy tickets for the Santa Rosa JC Theater Arts Department's new season, which starts in October and extends into next May. I wonder what my life will be like next May. Could be better, could be worse. Next Tuesday I might get a clue.