All last week, I had a guest. And it was wonderful to have a guest and we had a great time and we hung out and I entertained him like a good host and we went places early and came home late and I had freelance work to do, that wasn’t getting done, and I glanced at my emails but didn’t have time to do more than skim and run away and I let the house fall to pieces but it was okay, because I was busy, and I’ll pick it all up when I’m done with this having a visitor thing. But I felt kind of scattered and disorganized and out of touch, a little crazed, trying to keep up with the daily stuff I couldn’t let go to seed. I am surprised everything did not blow up, because frankly, I spent the week unsure what day it was and forgetting my own head because it is not nailed down, for that is a biological impossibility. And uncomfortable.
So I sent my guest off into the wild blue yonder, and I sighed a sigh of both melancholy and relief to have my house back, and I laid down for a moment, but then got back up, because holy crap, do I have so much to do and it all should have been done yesterday. I had forgotten how putting things off just means you have to do them later, not never ever again. No, I hadn’t really forgotten. Not really. I had just indulged in a little foolish, hopeless hope.
And I had hoped, really hard, that things would just disappear when I
ignored them and pretended I had never heard of a to-do list. Oh no,
those things, they buy each other drinks and have ill-advised one-night stands full
of drama and poor choices and they end up breeding a house full of
poorly behaved screaming brats who shriek for your attention and hit
you on the head with a spoon. But you can’t pay
attention because you’re paying attention to the other one, which you
can’t pay attention to because you have got to pay attention to this
other one, and so on and so forth down the line until you’re so
distracted and spun around that you’ve got nothing accomplished and a
belly full of acid to show for it.
I knew what I was getting into–I saw the deadlines looming and the
calendar closing in on the red-circled dates and I knew that this week
was going to start off with a pistol firing and me sprinting and
sprinting and hoping like hell I don’t fall on my face. I could have
told my friend that I had to spend a few hours working every day, and he would
have understood. That would have been the smart thing to do. I am not smart! But I do have a weakness for not doing work. I think that is called “being smart.” Some people call it “lazy,” but I think they are just jealous.
matter how the idea of this week coming up and the idea of having to
sit down and finish at least a book every day and a half for the next
five days sends me into a slough of despond (proofreading is both
incredibly boring and nervewracking at the same time), I know I’ll deal
with it, I’ll get it done, I’ll do a good job, I’ll be very tired, and
I will still be so glad I took that time off.