I am due to travel tomorrow. All the things that were open, left open-ended, are now precipitating.
Some of them, such as being out of underwear owing to the laundry that’s overdue by a week, are discovered at 5 in the evening.
Others, thankfully, were identified and addressed much earlier.
There’s something about the sheer stubbornness of a deadline that I hold sacred in my mind.
It’s been working out well for me. As a coping mechanism if nothing else.
I’m wondering if I should, instead, look at deadlines as just an opening salvo?
Anyway. For now, I’m almost packed, the laundry is done and should be ready to be used by the morning tomorrow. Things could have been much worse. They’re not.
If I’m being honest, this wasn’t even the eleventh hour rush. It was, perhaps, the guilt of the last week.
The shame and embarrassment of not having done anything meaningful.
And the fear, perhaps. The fear - that I’ve lost the ability to do things in any amount of time. And if I’m to actually do it, I need to allow myself plenty of time.
In hindsight, that was an excellent decision. I don’t think I’d be productive right now, at 7 in the evening the way I was at 11 in the morning.
Here’s to deadlines, the killer of procrastination.