For at least a week now, I have managed to put off vacuuming the kitchen floor. I’ve used legitimate excuses--appointments, writing deadlines, the piles of sorted laundry that cover it--and just plain flimsy ones--don’t want to disturb the sleeping cat, can’t put down the crossword puzzle.
I have even scrubbed the showers, sinks, and toilets to get out of doing that floor!
And yet, this morning, faced with writing this column, I vacuumed the kitchen floor--despite the piles of laundry, despite the sleeping cat, despite the crossword puzzle (in truth, there’s a fair stack of them). I’m not sure what it says about me, or about any of us, but clearly, when given choices, we have certain preferences that defy even our own logic.
To an avowed efficiency maven, like myself, it would have made more sense to do the laundry first, and I have a separate list of excuses for procrastinating on that. (I don’t like leaving wet laundry n the machine, and don’t want to dry it until I have time to fold it, and I won’t have time to fold it until I get this column off to the editor . . . .)
In terms of real life priorities, with no emergencies on the front--no illness, no flood, no fire--work, hence this column, should be pretty high on the list. So why am I stalling? Could it be a lack of inspiration? Perhaps. I didn’t really wake up with something I just had to get off my chest.
But inspiration is such a fickle thing. It comes and goes on its own whim. If I were to always await inspiration, I would write less often, and in different genres, more for myself, less for publication--not conducive to making a living.
Maybe I was inspired to vacuum the floor! No, that wasn’t it. While I do find occasionally find myself bitten by the cleaning bug--that isn’t so much inspiration as it is nesting impulse, or repulsion to mess, or a way to work out frustration.
I suppose I could be rebelling--against obligation, against the authority that demands I produce something, even when I’m not totally inspired.
Maybe I’m peeved at inspiration itself for abandoning me, leaving me to my own devices.
It’s ironic to me though that procrastination in one area breaks the procrastination in another. I suppose the best I can do is try to harvest that energy--and come up with a list of truly loathsome chores to help me buckle down to the ones I’m putting off while writing this column.
