It's Not Easy Being Yellow

I realize that I am literally wincing as I walk down the stairs, my arms full of indispensable tools for writing: calendar, notes, my fountain pen, my netbook. I’ve already walked past and talked myself out of a dozen activities to keep from going into my office – washing the oatmeal pot, putting away books, un-packaging the new iron – but I can’t take full credit. I stopped to do other things so I wouldn’t have to turn on the computer just yet. I made a to-do list of things that are already listed in five places and that will take years to complete, some of which aren’t even my jobs. Even now, with my back against the wall, I’m straightening up my desk and dusting the top of the monitor. What do I fear?

I’m a procrastinator. Now that’s a secret shame. There should be Procrastinators Anonymous meetings. It’s one of those character flaws that most people would have to admit to themselves, if not to anybody else. I know this because of the plethora of books, magazine articles and blogs on the subject. Psychology Today, the Times, even my favorite used bookstore have all conspired to bring this up to me in the last week. (I loved the book title, “Stop Procrastinating…Now!”)

I put off opening mail, filing taxes, paying bills. WHERE is that receipt? What is this extra charge? I had all that stuff in color-coded files. Where are they now?

There’s always too much stuff in the house and garage, stuff I don’t need anymore, stuff that’s driving me crazy. Stuff. And this really is a source of shame because what I SAY is that I don’t want or need extra stuff or the square footage to store it. I am a true Thoreau-ite and would like nothing more than to live in a 160 square foot house with just the necessities to be healthy and happy. But here I sit with a leaky kayak, a bike that doesn’t fit, a two-and-a-half-cylinder car with expired tags, and piles and piles of books and clothing that I don’t want to read or wear.

It gets worse. One of my favorite ways to keep from doing things is to read the paper, although why it’s called the paper when it’s just patterns of light on an electronic screen I don’t know. Lately I’ve been reading a lot about retirement, old age and death, being in my fifties and all. The question yesterday was, “What would you do if you only had five years to live?” My list looked like this:

1. Get enough sleep
2. Exercise for energy, mood uplift and weight loss
3. Have time to write

This is really funny. This is not a retirement list or 100 places to see before you die. I actually took a leave of absence this year so I would have time to write. I’ve already done the hard part. All I have to do is…do it.

All I have to do? Is that all? You’re kidding, right?

I’ve been putting off bills, chores and satisfaction all my life. Procrastination has cost me thousands of dollars, time spent worrying, days, weeks and months of inconvenience, and the depreciation and loss of dreams.

Why? Why do I do it?

It’s a powerful force, this compulsion to put things off. Remember the monitor dusting? I can spin out reading the paper into a two-hour thread. Wait, there’s the international papers too! What’s in this old purse?

I know I’m more comfortable with short-term pain than long-term gain. I’ve cultivated the skill of living in the moment, refusing to look ten days or ten years into the future. Who really wants to think seriously about how much they have to pay in taxes or bills, much less what their retirement or declining health will look like? And it’s easy to put these big jobs off – I’m distracted, and how! I can spend hours on Facebook and e-mail alone. Lest you think this is because I am self-employed, be deluded no longer – I’m corresponding with people sitting in cubicles. It’s not my fault!

Besides, I use up my willpower muscles early. By the time I’ve bypassed the doughnut and worked out in addition to working, running an errand or two plus a load of laundry, there isn’t a lot of go-juice left for these far-off chores.

But it’s more than a lack of vision or energy. I really hate this, but I think that despite my out-there, can-do persona, I lack confidence, fearing that I’ll fail if I try. I’ve pushed this one so far under the bed that I’m not even aware that I’m doing it. No, no, it’s not that I’m afraid of failure, I’m just too damned busy. Sure, there’s a low-level itch, feeling a little like dry skin and a little like hives, but as long as I don’t look at it too closely, all it does is…cost me.

I didn’t realize how strong this one is. This one. I can’t do it. The essay won’t be good enough. I’ll let people down. I’ll be too old. No one will buy it. No one will hire me. They’ll laugh. They’ll be bored. They won’t even notice.

When this one has got you around the neck, all the rational thought you can muster may be just barely enough. I made schedules. I made concessions. I set my alarm. I got a workout done early. I promised that I would not read the paper before 4:00. I got to my desk at nine o’clock with a plan to sit there for three hours.

And so there I was, my face drawn up in a grimace, moving vertical files around on my desk, dusting the surge protector, realizing just how deep the fear goes.

I have given…procrastination…too much power. It has stolen my money, my peace of mind, and years of satisfaction from acting on my strengths. I want to say, no more.

It’s much easier to read the paper. But it’s 10:30 now, and I’ve written about something buried deeply in my heart. And whether it’s good enough or not, here it is.