Procrastinators are people too

I went up the rickety folding ladder to get my last boxes out of the attic this evening. Mostly a bunch of baking supplies and dishes that have been sitting there since I moved out of my apartment last December. Along with the dusty lefse rolling pin and cake rounds is my trunk. I painted fish on the hideously neon green thing years ago in middle school, and it’s been a lot of places with me, survived many packings and unpackings. As I attempted to latch it up and bring it downstairs another hinge broke, now leaving one functional fastening device that I can only hope will make it up to school with me one last time. Hmm, something metaphorical there? Nah, just my imagination.

Sometimes, I feel as though things are just about to unravel. Not in any sort of psychological sense, it’s not like I’m going to go all psycho or anything, but that my little happy bubble of homey-ness and hard fought for contentment is so close to popping, I’m just waiting for it. Not a particularly happy feeling, which is sad (duh, inherently; I enjoy redundancy), considering a new semester is right around the corner. I should be *excited* about *senior year* [said with prerequisite happy face on] and all that shit, but I can’t seem to do it.

What’s so strange is that the past two weeks have been amazing. All day yesterday, while running around looking for car paint, drawing on the van, finally getting some color on the hood and having it look good, I was on such a high. You laugh, scoff, and tell me it was the industrial strength paint fumes that I was inhaling in the 90 degree midday heat outside, but my idealistic little heart refuses to agree. The guy at the custom detailing place looked over my priming job, saw my cutoff shorts and gray nails, and asked “did you do all this yourself?” It felt so good, in my meager little fashion, to be able to say “Yes.” It’s just a phase, it will pass, but it was fun. Can’t wait to get back in October and get started on the next section.

Even got to go for a nice relaxing run before my Dad presented before me the Iron Chef challenge of the evening: to make something appetizing with lamb chops, dandelion greens, and white asparagus. The plate presented to him a few hours later was worthy of any high-falootin’ restaurant, complete with stylized sauce, sliced meat (perfectly rare, right off the grill), presented on the trendy ‘bed of wilted greens.’ A day of small successes, but big for me.

The sort of day that doesn’t happen very often at school. Grrr. Maybe I should try to *make* it happen, but then it’s just not the same. Or maybe I’m just feeling sorry for myself, and don’t want to leave the beach, say goodbye to my friends that I’ve hardly seen all summer, and deal with all the crap that I’ve been trying not to think about (quite successfully, I might add) for the past 10 months or so.

I didn’t want to leave Shabbos dinner with my adopted family on 72nd street tonight, because I knew all that waited for me at home was empty boxes waiting to be packed, and disorganized bookcases. Why can’t I just spend every afternoon at the pool, watching the shadows get longer as we play stupid aquatic games with her younger siblings, dry off in lounge chairs at sunset as the moon rises over the pines? I guess I’m just an awful person, would prefer to be non-productive, and live life a little slower for a little while longer. It’s been good to me for a little while, and I could get used to that.

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