Sometimes I astonish myself. You wouldn’t believe how neat and orderly my pantry is. How clean and well-stocked. All the canned fruit is on one end of a shelf, all the canned beans and olives on the other. Cereal boxes are lined up with spares behind. The canisters holding flour and sugar are full, and free of dust and fingerprints. The floor gleams, with nary a crumb or broken chip in sight.
It’s all the more impressive because 1) I have a lot of editing to do today, and 2) we have around 30 people coming for a BBQ tomorrow night. The sensible, responsible thing to do would have been either 1) to sit down at my computer and start rearranging words and rewording sentences, or 2) to clean the bathroom, then run the vacuum around the living room.
For the first time in several years, I didn’t have a blog post queued and ready to post this morning.
I could list the excuses (quite valid)—I went camping all weekend. I came home sick. The decongestants make my brain fuzzy. I stayed in bed and watched The Hobbit with Pete instead of getting up and traipsing downstairs to write. But in the end, it all comes down to this: writing a post was not my top priority, and it didn’t get done.
I think we’ll all live. And just to entertain you, I’m reposting this extremely pertinent little story I wrote back in 2010. See you Friday.
I wish I hadn’t procrastinated.
The room was still dark when I woke up this morning. Squinting at the clock, I read the glowing numbers: 4:25. Ugh. I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but my brain had already switched on—then immediately kicked into overdrive. I tried to tell it that I didn’t need to get up for another two hours, but it wasn’t listening. “Taxxxxesssss,” my brain hissed, reminding me of Gollum.
That’s right. Today is the deadline. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to fill our my quarterly sales tax forms—one for the city and one for the county/state. I imagine the FBI knocking on my door in the middle of the night and dragging me away for sales tax delinquency. I shiver.
“Sales tax? That’s all?” you ask. “What’s the big deal?”