It’s Monday, which means compiling my new “to do” list for the week – one that I suspect will contain the exact same number of tasks on it by the end of the day as it has this morning.
Would you, like me, prefer to have your labia pierced than do admin?
Last week, I was forced to pull my head out of the sand (halfway) in an attempt to get some shit done, the sort of shit that now plagues my sleep patterns because I’ve put it off for months. “Life lesson number one, for reaching adult status” is learning that denial and avoidance are only effective for so long.
- Bills have to be paid
- Cars have to be insured
- Family has to be fed
- Scripts have to be updated
- People need to know where you live now
It turns out that the stuff is on your “to do” list is there for a reason.
I have a sneaking suspicion that the old man will cite my bulging in-tray as grounds for divorce one day. His lack of tolerance for my more Bohemian idealism and laissez-faire attitude to organization puts added pressure on a marriage already squeezed to one inch of its life from working at home together. A minimalist, he believes that the only thing that needs storing in our home is the artificial Christmas tree, and he aspires to be paperless. Conversely, I am a world-class procrastinator with an allergy to small print, deadlines, and final demands.
Just about the only incentive for me to sort through my in-tray is the threat of prison.
Between you and me, there may be a summons to jury service somewhere in that tray; there is certainly documentation that relates to the sale of our first house, and I am hopeful that my degree certificate, the scans of my children in utero and their vaccination records are also in there.
Yet I feel conflicted about how much time these menial tasks take up, when who knows how much time I have left in this world. I don’t want to be on my death bed thinking ‘well, at least the dog’s jabs are up-to-date,’ I want to go into my next world at peace, a spirit freed from the shackles of society. I don’t want to be comparing the cost of new tires or house insurance when I could be walking my dog, writing or researching which new wine to try at the weekend. Time is precious now. It has taken me fifty years to learn not to sweat the small stuff and now I want to enjoy the empowerment of this newly acquired wisdom. And if those papers didn’t have such a frightening habit of growing into big, scary, adult-looking papers with big, bold red lettering on the front of them, I would continue to ignore them.
Some of the permanent residents on my list necessitate more than filing or making a phone call; they involve leaving my study, my heater and my dog; showering, dressing, LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE!