I have somewhat dreaded writing my column this week. Not because it’s a serious subject, or made difficult by five broken fingers … it’s the fact that I’ll officially expose myself as being a complete idiot.
“How is that possible?”, you may cry, but believe me – it be. And you’ll probably agree by the time you get to the end.
I have many times admitted to being a world-class procrastinator. I could put off things ‘til tomorrow for England. If, for whatever reason, I was running the 100-metre race in some parallel universe, I’d delay proceedings because, actually, I needed to get fresh sprinting shoes; or the starting blocks would have to be fixed; or I’d meant to get new running shorts – ones that didn’t bunch up in all the wrong places – but there was bad traffic, I got up late, the shop was closed … soooo can we postpone?
For, I’ll guess, a year, the flush handle on my toilet has been sticking. The first I realised that was when I left my bedroom for a bit, came back, and the tank was still filling. The handle was in the down position. Hmmm … better get that fixed.
But I didn’t. Instead, I got into the habit of pushing down the handle, then manually pulling it almost immediately back up again. Sure, once in a while I’d forget, and probably add $20 to my water bill, but I was busy, you see. I wanted to finish watching that show I was bingeing; I wouldn’t be home in the afternoon, so the plumber couldn’t come by then; my bathroom was a mess – didn’t want anyone seeing it like that. For months, I’d find multiple reasons to not tackle the issue … and that’s when it even crossed my mind.
After a while, lifting up that handle became second nature. It wasn’t an emergency to get this sorted; heck – in a way, my arm was getting a workout; it would be foolish to replace it. The only time I confess I felt a little niggle of embarrassment is when we had people stay in the house to look after the cats, which meant they had to go into my bedroom where my tortie Chiqui resides. Much like Smaug of ‘Lord of the Rings’ fame, she isn’t a big fan of mingling, and if let loose in the rest of the building, causes destruction wherever she goes. She, therefore, must be served in her kingdom. No matter what month we were away, I’d stick with the same script. “The handle on my toilet just started sticking and I haven’t had the chance to repair it yet, so be aware if you need to use it.”
Lies, lies, lies.
Fast-forward to the weekend after Hurricane Beryl. It had already been quite a few days, with two air-conditioning systems going on the fritz (both in overtime hours, of course). I was pretty weary as Sunday rolled around, so after being out of my room for about an hour, I decided I would retire for a nap. As I opened the door, and stepped in, my slippered foot hit wetness. What the … ?
My eyes scanned further, and took in the sight of water everywhere. The Persian rug was soaked, and some wooden parts of the floor were already swelling – and not with pride. My first thought was a burst pipe, but no. When I left for the living room, the toilet had got blocked, kept running and I hadn’t lifted the handle.
They don’t say, but I’m saying: Procrastination comes in threes. Number one was not getting that handle replaced. The second was not clearing out my room, something I’d been promising to do since January. There were boxes all over the floor, full of costumes, glue guns, bracelet beads, fans with brightly coloured silk attached that were now imprinting vivid pink, blue and green patterns on anything they touched. It was a nightmare, and I had no one to blame but myself. We put waterproof covers on the bed and started lifting sodden containers to dry out on them. By this time, I might as well have been wearing sponges on my feet. My slippers were squelchy, sad shadows of themselves, hindering my progress. “Don’t you have some sneakers in your closet?” non-judgemental, helpful best friend Lynne asked, as she rolled in a Shop-Vac I’d forgotten we had.
Ah, yes. That would make sense. I rarely wore them, athlete that I am, but there had to be a pair in there somewhere.
Procrastination Number Three: My walk-in closet light had been very dim for some time (kind of like its owner), and I had been meaning to replace it, but … you know where this is going. If I flicked the switch back and forth a few times, I might be rewarded with a slight glow, but that was it. Therefore, a quest that should have taken 30 seconds stretched into five minutes, as I squinted and waded my way around the small space. I was on the brink of giving up and donning sparkly, heeled boots, when suddenly the toe of a forgotten Nike poked out at me. Hurrah. I pulled them on, and got back to the task at hand.
Even with the Shop-Vac, it was an hours-long job, and my back was screaming near the end of it. A horrible day.
Maybe procrastination actually comes in fours. If I’d returned to an exercise regimen, as I’d promised myself, vacuuming up the water might not have taken such a toll on my body.
Oh, and the next day, I went to A. L. Thompson’s and bought a new flusher for $15. I switched it out in 10 minutes.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t the next day. I think it was about a week later. It was just so hot outside, I had a full schedule, there was a pimple on my face …
Old habits die hard.
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