Bitter pill

22 09 2008

Ahhh, Sunday. My one day off. I used to dislike Sundays—the day before Monday—but now that it is the only I can spend the day in glorious indolence, I rather like it.

I do tend to hate the lead-up to a dreaded phenomenon almost as much as the phenomenon itself—sometimes more so. So, while agreeing with the Boomtown Rats’s general sentiments on Monday, I have held Monday against Sunday. Similarly, dreading hot weather, I hold summer against spring.

A neighbor to this sensibility is the desire to get the worst or unavoidable parts of an activity out of the way, first. Thus, when painting, I do the trim work first, then just let it roll over the walls. When moving, I grab all of the stuff out of the closets and cupboards, first, so that I’m not surprised by extra work at the back end. Hell, even as a high schooler and undergrad, I overloaded my early years so as to ensure flexibility later. (It was worth it: on alternating Fridays in high school I had more study halls than classes.)

Unfortunately, this determination only goes so far. In fact, if I don’t do dreaded tasks early, I may not do them at all, or only do them embarassingly or inconveniently late. I can drag my ass on the most mundane of to-dos: changing addresses, making doctors’ appointments, calling in a refill, renewing my driver’s license (really gotta get on that), sending letters to literary agents (really really gotta get on that). Done early: no big deal. Done late: HUUUUGE deal.

This is not mere procrastination (as with, say, the sixty papers sitting on top of my filing cabinet), but a kind of sulky refusal to deal with my life. ‘I don wanna’. Please. I’m too damned many years old to be acting like this. If I can manage to deal with ordinary procrastination (that is, of the sort which involves my wage-work) and get stuff done, why can’t I puncture the inflated meaning attached to the ordinary tasks of life? Because that is the problem: By my inaction, I turn these prosaic matters into something operatic.

God. I remember when my neuroses would poke me into getting shit done. Even they’ve given up.

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