I’ve been battling my inner psyche with a very important post I need to write. So that post will be written tomorrow, when I can focus a little bit better.
Isn’t it amazing how procrastination comes so spontaneously, so easily, when you know you need to buckle down and actually do something?
I never cease to amaze myself.
When I was a kid and I didn’t want to go to bed– because, seriously, what kid ever wants to go to bed?– I would linger for anywhere from 10 to 45 minutes past my bedtime saying goodbyes.
Those were the moments I would remember the "important" things that would happen in my day. Or how I was scared of the crescent moon peeking through the window. I would hide behind a mask of politeness, wishing everyone and everything I knew a good night. Sometimes I would just hang from the door, clinging onto the knobs and swinging back and forth until someone told me to quit it and finally, sternly, sent me to bed.
As I got older, my procrastination reached far, wide and all around.
I became a chronically-late person.
I would find new and challenging places to do homework, fifteen
seconds minutes before it was due.
Driving to school or work became a timed obstacle course, manic and even dangerous.
Term papers were written burning the midnight oil, the just-past-midnight oil, the way-late-oil, the early morning oil, and ….. oh yeah, you get the picture. Wan smiles and lattes became my turn-in day signature.
There is something delicious about that adrenaline rush of the last minute.
There is something exhilarating about wondering if you will actually make the deadline– better than a cliffhanger on a novel and better than the suspense in a well-crafted sleeper.
The pulse quickens. The stomach feels rattlingly empty.
That strange silver thread of icy cold water trickles down the back –the weirdest sensation of all, which makes you feel like peeing, or alternately like your legs are turning to jelly.
I’ll finish this later.