I have a confession to make. I used to be ridiculed for my punctuality and preparedness. If I were tasked with some sinecure, I’d be Johnny on the spot: complete, ready, confident. And if I had an appointment, I had an uncanny knack for arriving on the dot, not a minute early or late. All of this good behavior constituted a point of pride for me.
I think my time conscientiousness and unfailing fulfillment of tasks irked some people, though. I recall one dinner invitation where I waited at my host’s front door, my finger hovering above the doorbell until I pressed it precisely at the appointed hour. My host appeared and seemed mildly put off. “You did say 6?” I inquired, but the look on his face read, “Well, yes – but really!”
In the interim, all of this self-control and punctuality seems to have unraveled. For the life of me, I can no longer get anywhere on time. And when a task is in the offing, well, my house is a legacy of well-intentioned but uncompleted projects. (Exhibit A: I put in a garden with high expectations, but I put off constructing a fence. To the animals that ravaged my beans and cucumbers I say, “You’re welcome!”)
Now and then I take the time to ask myself what happened. How could I go from tightly wrapped to, well, unwrapped? My best guess is that, over the years, I took on more and more responsibilities (children, property, job opportunities) until I simply overloaded the business of day-to-day living and eventually couldn’t keep up.
At the outset this bothered me. The first time I was late for an appointment, I was at a loss to understand what had happened. And the first time I attempted a plumbing project and took a long, long break before thinking about finishing it, I felt as if I had let the world down. (The ensuing leak reminded me to get cracking again.)
I have, on occasion, attempted to regain my earlier glory as a man who has everything well in hand and running like clockwork. One tactic was to put the next day’s obligations on index cards. But then I neglected to look at the cards, which led to – you got it – missed appointments and unfinished chores.
My only other option was to become a sort of happy warrior and live with the man I had become. I arrive late to meetings, apologize, and you know what? I’m forgiven! I put off tasks and, maybe, by the time I get around to them, they no longer need doing. (Exhibit B: the lawn, which was growing like the Serengeti. I postponed cutting it all through the lovely summer, and when autumn arrived and the grass went dormant, I no longer needed to mow.)
The result of all this is that, in taking stock of what I’ve become, I find that it has many welcome advantages. For one, I move more slowly through life, since I have concluded that I can no longer always be on time, so I’m doing more walking than running. And I address my chores in increments, painting one wall of a room, for example, and then – at some future time – another wall. Eventually the task will get done, giving observers the impression of efficiency and industry.
Interestingly, my new life as a procrastinator has garnered the approval of those around me because, I’ve learned, they are procrastinators as well, and they have welcomed me to their noble band.
Robert Klose is the author of “Adopting Anton,” the story of his adoption of a young boy from Ukraine.