I’m suffering from chronic
Scarlett Syndrome, aka: procrastination.
The symptoms are easy to identify. When pesky tasks nag for completion, the
words of Scarlett O’Hara echo in your head, “I
won’t think of it now. After all, tomorrow is another day.”
Memory indicates that the
Scarlett Syndrome must have infected me when I was a youngster.
“Marcia, did you mail that
thank you note to Aunt Mary for the birthday present she sent you last month?”
my Mom asked for the umpteenth time.
“No problem. I’ll take
care of it tomorrow.” One week before my
next birthday, Aunt Mary held my note
in her hand.
The syndrome reached
epidemic proportions in my academic years. For example, a months-long book
report assignment, now due in a few days, necessitated my spending an entire weekend
reading three Pearl Buck novels in Reader’s Digest Condensed Books and missing
a date with the senior class president. I never forgave Pearl Buck and never
did understand what was so Good about The Earth anyway.
Over time, you’d think I’d
have recognized the symptoms and consulted a specialist on how to cure the
syndrome. But, like Scarlett, decades later I’m still putting off until
tomorrow what I should be doing today.
“Did you call the washer
repairman? I’m running out of clean underwear,” my husband Garth asked six days
after the machine stopped working mid-wash cycle.
“No problem. I’ll take
care of it tomorrow. And don’t worry, push comes to shove, you can always wear
a pair of mine.” I try to be helpful.
It’s not that I don’t want
to handle those annoying tasks. More important things seem to crop up in the
mean time - like plucking my eyebrows or clipping coupons.
Then it dawned on me. The
reason I haven’t cured myself of this perverse syndrome.
I work better under
pressure.
Back in the day, I could finish
my kid’s science project (complete with exploding lava), bake six dozen
brownies for the school sale, type up three months of PTA meeting minutes and pack
my husband’s suitcase for a week long business trip, in one night with time to
spare. No problem.
Of course, I was much
younger then and operated at warp speed on three hours sleep. Now it takes me a
lot longer to accomplish something as simple as going to the supermarket once a
week.
“Uh, Marcia, when are you going to the store?
We’re down to one box of tuna helper and a stalk of wilted celery.” Garth nags
for no apparent reason.
“No problem. I’ll take
care of it tomorrow. Have you checked the freezer?”
At long last, I’m proud to
announce that things are gonna change. I’ve taken a vow to rid myself of that
nasty Scarlett Syndrome once and for all. I’m swapping my “World’s Greatest
Procrastinator” badge for one that reads “Do it NOW.” I’ll clean the house, wash the clothes, read
my book club book and finish my to-do list on time and on schedule. No problem.
But I’ll take care of it
tomorrow. “After
all, tomorrow is another day.”
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