My name is Kath, and I’m a procrastinator.
I’m a writer and a procrastinist. (Yeah. I just made that up. Or so Spellcheck says.) I love to do the first and excel at the second. Which is going to make this Blog a Challenge.
Warning. Here’s my level of procrastination: my daughter. Out of respect for her (And the threat she uses waay too often about me remembering who will pick out the ‘home’ I get stowed in.) I will not say how old she would be, if I was not expert at procrastinating. But she’d be seven years older. Impressed? Me too.
Here’s the thing. Who says procrastinating is all that bad? Maybe I needed to be seven years older to be the best mom. (I’m making myself a Mother of the Century certificate, as soon as I finish the needlepoint pillows I started in 1985.) Recalling the summer when my daughter and I hit the road touring prospective colleges, I am sure if I’d been younger and less mellow, (Under certain circumstances mellow may be measured in glasses of wine a day, if applied at the proper time of day. When Her Highness woke-up worked for me. But that’s a Blog for another day.) I would never have survived the road trip. And if I’d been younger and less philosophical, perhaps on returning home from the road trip, I’d not have thrown myself out of the car as we slowed in our driveway and raced upstairs to lock myself in my office. Where I spewed out pages of angst that turned out not to be a suicide note but my first published humorous essay. (Trimmed to 450 words from the original seventeen pages.)
At any rate, I survived my only progeny’s teen years. (Which by my calculation, teen years being equivalent to dog years, lasted twelve years when she went off to college at seventeen.) I’m saying that it all came out well because everything happens in its own time. I was ready to be Mom. And Her Highness has a PhD from Yale and (drum roll please) a paying job in a university not located in a fourth world country.
Moving on. Clearly the wood for the new floors in the living room and my office needed two months to acclimatize to me before we laid the floors. Although experts seem to think 48 hours to a week is the norm. Seriously? My first/current husband took five months to get used to me and propose. See how that worked out. (Note: another blog.)
Would I have spent a very therapeutic five minutes screaming into the phone at the cable company computer, if I had just gone ahead and fired them the first month?
Certainly every agent and editor on the planet would have already rejected all five of my completed novels, if I’d “gotten off it and on ‘em” (as Dad used to say) and submitted to everybody and their pet pig. So for now I still have hope and a list of victims to submit to.
This blog would have started two months ago, if I was not the ultimate procrastinator. My name is Kath. And now I’m a blogger.