Procrastination

procrastination

[ proh-kras-tuh-ney-shuhn ]

noun:

the act or habit of procrastinating, or putting off or delaying, especially something requiring immediate attention: She was smart, but her constant procrastination led her to be late with almost every assignment.

That familiar feeling creeping through me again. I don’t think I have ever been a ‘do it now’ kind of person. I have always faffed and dallied, working better to a deadline than a long- term goal, but I have been particularly bad the last few weeks. When the boys went from online school to physically having to attend, I found myself flitting from one thing to the next, barely able to concentrate on any one task, pretty confused after such a long time with a houseful suddenly being alone - yet surprised how quickly the days went, having barely any time between school runs to get anything productive done. A week or so went by and I got back into some sort of routine but then the Easter Bunny came to visit, and I am here again - back in limbo, where one chocolatey day merges into the next.

My work pile is huge. The domestic tower higher. I have an inbox full of To-Dos and a backlog of drudge I am finding hard to tackle. I get up, a little later than school run time, but early enough to fit in a full day of work and force myself to sit at my desk and be productive. After checking my emails, I write down my tasks for that day on a To-Do pad I keep solely for the purpose, as if writing the list somehow focuses my brain. It doesn’t. My brain flits as I check social media – mainly Instagram, Facebook and Twitter – the company I work for requires me to upload various posts to their page, but I get easily diverted scrolling through other people’s exciting lives. Those who upload their Strava run or cycle they completed at 6am that morning. Those who live near the sea and post images of them cold water swimming or strolling on the beach. Those living in the mountains with lochs and lakes on their doorsteps, images of them embracing wild nature, hands open to the sky as they drink in the freedom - frustrating for us landlubbers who have to contend with a long ride in a car to dip our bits or reach for the hills. It is probably at this point that I search houses through Right Move and work out the distance of the commute from our nearest beach to the boy’s school or the logistics of upping sticks living in the Lakes. By the time I have checked and visualised us all in our new property, the boys surface, the house wakes up and my tummy announces elevenses.

The fridge is a great comfort sometimes – the familiarity of opening and closing it gives me a sense of purpose as I reach in to finish some cheese or scoop pickles from a jar. I am not that much of a muncher unless, of course, I have Things to Do. The pantry cupboard has the same pull, holding me fascinated as I stare into it hoping the crackers, nuts and nibbles will give me the push I need to finish at least one of the projects I have to do. Back up to my desk, armed with provisions and a cup of coffee I have a real explosion of activity for an hour or so – spreadsheets get filled in; emails get answered; quotes get quoted, reports get written and I find I feel virtuous as I slowly make my way down the To Do list on my To-Do pad before I find the day has run away with me again and I am re-writing half of the tasks out to start again tomorrow.

I do get my work done – eventually, but if I didn’t spend so long browsing garden furniture online or sorting out my knicker drawer as a deterrent to filing a tax return, I would have more time for me. Or at least, more time for me with people. Because I spend so long frittering away the precious moments on idle tasks or research which will lead to nowhere; I find I build up such a backlog of work and domestic duty I am too busy to meet up with friends or take myself off somewhere with the boys. Surely, I should have learned that by now? Judging by the pile of unread books by my bed, the boxes that have been sitting on the landing waiting to go into the loft for the last 6 months and the mammoth mountain of baby photographs I have taken 17 years to still sort through – obviously not.

And with that – she furiously tapped away at her laptop and made a purposeful effort to finish this week’s blog so she could crack on with her duties.

© The Real Tilly Fairfax