Today’s title could also be “Story of My Life.” I’m so awesome at procrastinating that I get up early to do it. Doing things I didn’t HAVE to do and feeling guilty about it became such a part of my life in college that I’ve just sort of clung onto the feeling like a hoarder. I can’t really procrastinate anymore. Work is a full-time race of small crises and yes, I am still taking courses, but they are nothing like the courses I took to get my MA, so I feel perfectly justified in blowing them off regularly. Yet here I am, maintaining relics of that old feeling of deadlines wooshing past.
Ok, that’s a bit of an overstatement. I rarely actually turned in work late or asked for an extension, but I still did my best to avoid what I had to do. I was the Queen of let’s-go-to-the-zoo and the Empress of googling- random-phrases, not to mention the veritable Sultan of what’s-on-tv. But now that I’m all grown up and responsible I actually have time to fun and I don’t have to feel guilty about it. What a paradox. A real job gives me time for guilt-free real fun.
The other paradox? I live in a town that rarely has anything to do, so my new-found freedom is not so great. It’s like finding out you won the lottery but they are going to pay you in Greek drachmas. The lack of activity in this town also lowers one’s ability to determine which activities are actually fun so that anything sounds amazing.
Case # 1: A few friends and I spent about 20 minutes Tuesday watching a large piece of demolition equipment move down the street. Nope, nothing was destroyed. Well, except for that 20 minutes.
Case # 2: the nearby Air Force base open house=most fun I had all week.
You might be thinking, “Oh good, she’s finally growing up. She appreciates national security and safety and supporting those who do it.”
this is a fairly accurate impression that my best friend, who was with me, did of my day.
*nudge* “flightsuits.” Time passes. *nudge* “More flightsuits.” *nudge nudge* “Ooh, flightsuit AND a mustache!”
I’m a total creeper about flightsuits.
Yes, I have a fairly well-developed and well-documented (unfortunately, and now there’s no point in denying it) love of flightsuits on men. Every man I’ve ever seen in one develops sudden swagger. They walk across the tarmac with that I’m-about-to-blow-shit-up walk, and it drives me a little crazy in the very best way.
Now, while this part of my personality was being seriously over indulged, my inner child was doing her own thing.
It went like this. “That’s a big plane! I need to go into the big plane! Ooh, I want to push that button! That button is so shiny! I want to touch it! Ooh, another big plane! Let’s go see it. Can we go see it?”
These two parts of me competed for attention the entire day until responsible me just had to step in and remind me that I had a sunburn. Oh, and that I was still stiff and sore from falling down the stairs two days before. Responsible me is such a jerk.