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As
the year changes over, I vow this will be the year I get ahead of the
game—whatever that game might be.
I’m tired of procrastinating.
I’m tired of feeling the pressure of should dos. I’m tired of being
tired. So . . . my solution is to embrace the Boy Scout motto: Be
prepared. Ahead of time. A little at a time.
The first test occurs right away
as I make preparations for a small, annual writer’s retreat at my home.
I need to be domestic and clean and cook. Unfortunately, none of these
attributes are my attributes, unless I’m in the
mood, and I’ve long realized those moods can easily leapfrog months. Or
years.
But this year, with my new
resolution in tow, I vow that I will get ahead of the game and get the
entire thing under control. D-day (done-day) is five days away, when
the first author will arrive.
Day 1: I
psych myself up to do it right this year.
However, as the day wears on and
I haven’t actually done anything beyond thinking about doing something,
I end up feeling very much like Scarlett O’Hara: I’ll do it
tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.
Day 2: I look
at my to-do list and divide the house into battle zones: basement, main
floor, top floor. When the kids were little, I used to draw squares in
the carpet of their bedrooms with a finger, telling them to “Clean up
this square” in an attempt to make the chaos seem more manageable. This
tactic might have been helpful until I acknowledge the first floor of
my house is mostly wood.
Instead I collect dirty dishes
from all three floors and fill the dishwasher.
I forget to turn it on.
Day 3:
Suffering from guilt for yesterday, I make a menu and a grocery list.
Feeling extremely fruitful, I even recopy the list according to
sections in the grocery store: Produce, Dairy, and the
Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle. Knowing this is above and beyond any “getting
ahead of the game” scenario I ever aspired to, I feel smug and done for
the day but . . . I refuse to give in to the temptation, so I actually
go to the grocery store and buy the things I need.
It takes two carts.
Back home, enticed by the food
in the Fat-Sugar-Chemical aisle, I make lunch. And since that makes a
mess, I dive in and cook the menu items that can be frozen until the
weekend. Adrenaline kicks in. Four hours later I have made sweet and
sour chicken, coffee cake, muffins, crumb cookies, and a monstrous
mess. I wonder if Merry Maids has a 911 number . . .
I clean up and collapse on the
couch. I fall asleep to Law & Order reruns.
Day 4: I
remember the Proverbs 31 woman (sigh) and try to take verse seventeen
to heart: “She sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for
her tasks.” We’ll see about that.
The
basement beckons. As I vacuum, I notice a path in the carpet the cats
have made on their way to their Poo-Room. I decide to force them into a
new path by pulling out a bar stool, relocating a potted plant, and
moving a footstool in the direct line of their padding little feet. I
wait for a cat to run the gauntlet. Pepper complies, and I am
momentarily victorious, until I realize a new path
will be pressed into the carpet.
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I
also realize as I vacuum the
stairway, that the felines are not the only guilty party. Looking down
upon my work, I see my own footprints in the plush. Because there is no
solution, and because my back hurts, I retire to the couch and watch Law
& Order reruns.
Day 5 D-Day:
I wallow in the fact the wood floor cannot leave track marks like the
carpet, but grieve that it produces a community of dust bunnies. I do
my best to round them up before proceeding to the second floor where
bathrooms and clean sheets beckon. I try to imitate a fabric softener
commercial by making a sheet float through the air to fall neatly on
the bed. I only succeed in getting it caught in the ceiling fan and
knocking over a lamp. But I make my mother proud by making everything
fresh and new—including hospital corners.
It’s nearly time to leave for
the airport. I’m sweaty and want a nap. If I ignore the need for
makeup, I could probably slip in ten minutes of rest. I close my eyes
(to afternoon Law & Order reruns) and am
nearly asleep when a kitty jumps up on my chest. No wonder the carpet
showed paw marks.
From my position on the couch I
notice the entry light has cobwebs. The cat jumps to safety as I take
care of it.
And the windows need washing . .
. Hopefully, no one will be tempted to look through them.
And my roots need touching up .
. . If I comb my hair just right or wear a hat . . .
I leave for the airport—I am out
of gas and have to stop and fill up—and the weekend begins. The house
is filled with writer friends who bring their coats, suitcases, and
laptops, which makes me realize no one is looking at the house anyway.
We are too busy talking and being.
The fellowship is awesome, the
food edible, and the time flies. As they leave until next year, I vow
to add something to my “get ahead of the game” scenario: Don’t worry so
much about anything because my friends don’t care
about kitty tracks, they accept whatever level of scrubbed tub I can
manage, and they’d settle for McDonald’s if that’s what I choose to
serve.
They love me and I love them and
our time together is what’s important. “If we love one another, God
lives in us and his love is made complete in us” (I John 4:12 NIV).
Knowing that is truly getting
ahead of the game.
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