In Defense of Procrastination

I thought I would make it to the gym yesterday, get on the treadmill and get in a little exercise before leaving for Israel next week. I had a new book with me, new hiking shoes to break in, the perfect window of time between work and band practice, and I wanted to be able to say that my first blog post was directly related to the day's events!

Well, it didn't happen, primarily because I spent more time writing the post than I thought I would, and my window was gone. Most things take longer than I expect: chores, driving, shopping. On most of my half-workday Fridays, I write down eleven things I want to get done before the evening's activities. I am optimism personified when it comes to filling a few hours.

Usually by the time I finish the second thing on my list, I look at the clock, and according to my schedule I'm supposed to be done with the fourth thing. I choose which one or two of the remaining nine things can't wait, or will bother me most if they aren't done soon, and admit to myself that cleaning my room will take about 9 times longer than the half hour I allocated. The pile of junk in the corner remains.  But at least it's on the list.

I know -- yesterday I was decrying lists.  I don't take back what I said.  Keeping a "list completion" mentality and longing for the day when everything is checked off is an oppressive way to live.  But I think there's something special about making that interminable list: to add to it every day, every hour.  To realize I'd like to run a marathon, to learn Latin, to become fluent in Spanish, to learn to play drums, to install my own hardwood floors, to visit new places, to read that series, to write an operating system, to make an album.  There's something wonderful about adding things to that list way faster than I can possibly check them off.

I guess I've always lived my life subconsciously refusing to believe that time is finite, that the long string of days comprising my life will eventually end.  Heaven is supposed to be that way, right?  Is my faith really that strong, that I've already settled into an eternal lifestyle in some ways?  I wish I could say it is, but it's more likely that God has simply given me bigger eyes than my stomach, itches I can't scratch, and a propensity to write checks in dreams that the waking world will not cash.  Hopefully there is a place for this irresponsible sort of behavior.