Tales from a Selective Procrastinator
"It took multiple trips because no one there had any idea how to fix the situation, as no one had ever procrastinated that long before..."
Selective procrastination.
Is that a thing? If it is, I definitely have it. But again, only selectively.
There are some things I’m compulsively ahead of schedule for, such as travel. I live in mortal fear of missing a plane and everything I do is to prevent that from happening. My neatly packed and organized bags can often be found waiting by the door like silent soldiers, up to two days prior to my departure. If I’m driving to the airport, you can bet they’re stowed in the trunk the night before, with my handbag hanging on the garage door handle, so there’s no way I could accidentally leave without it. Also, I pack only carry-ons, so if I must make a change, I’m not encumbered by too much physical baggage. (Only emotional.)
And, spoiler alert: if I’m not at the airport three hours early for a domestic flight, panic ensues.
Years ago, when I was on the road for endless book tours, I created a packing checklist and invested in a second set of everything, as such was my fear of being caught unprepared. Thanks to my system, I never had to worry about that awful morning-of scramble, never trying to remember to put my mascara in my carry-on so I didn’t show up at an event looking like a newborn mole, never fretting that I’d land in Cleveland sans the kind of deodorant that can withstand 100+ hugs. Twenty cities in twenty-six days was stressful enough without the added obstacles of a timed packing challenge or having to find a random CVS for saline solution between events. (And God help me if I were off to some place in Europe without all I needed, as they don’t even make fat girl underpants or swimsuits.)
Fletch does not subscribe to this way of thinking and it gives me heart palpitations. I cannot tell you how twitchy I am when I see him start a load of whites at 10:00pm when he realizes he has no clean underwear the night before an early morning departure. (I should also mention that I do not touch Fletch’s laundry. In 2006, he was critical of my not folding his clothes quickly enough to prevent wrinkles, so I solved that problem by never washing a damn thing of his ever again.)
Fletch and I traveled to Rome together in 2014, and I left a few days earlier than he did. As I sat on the Spanish Steps, watching all the beautiful people pass by, I called him, saying, “It’s Italy. People are more stylish here. Please bring nicer clothes and don’t pack like an asshole.”
Did he show up three days later with a bag full of Johnny Cash and el Pollo Loco t-shirts because they were the only things clean?
Yes. Yes, he did.
But the joke was on me, as he soon discovered that Italian clothing fit him perfectly, whereas the only Italian things that fit me were sunglasses and shoes. He had to buy a second suitcase to pack all his treasures. Argh.
Anyway, procrastination…
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