Time management can suck it

I am fully aware that I need to be awake by 4:30am in order to have a shower, look decent for work, and arrive on time. This doesn’t change the fact that, 9 times out of 10, when my alarm clock starts blasting, I will reach over and beat it like Ike beat Tina. Like a teenage boy after he gets his first look at a naked woman. Like a convict...

What I mean to say is – I will pound it quite vigorously and with apparent relish, effectively putting it out of commission and, consequently, I am often late. My alarm clock has now taken so many beatings that the volume won’t stay at one level and the radio stations skip around on their own, likely seeking to dodge the next blow.

Obviously work is my biggest issue since I’m about the furthest thing from a morning person you will find. I sleep like the dead and when woken suddenly, tend to swing first and ask questions later. But my violent tendencies aside (unless you’re into that sort of thing...’sup.), I have issues with time in general.

My boss is in a constant tizzy over my lack of time management skills. “You have got to get here on time”, she says at least once a week. It’s only thanks to her leniency and my apparent charm that I’m able to continue trucking along at a snail’s pace, popping in, breathless and disheveled, with the next excuse on the tip of my tongue.

I like the idea of a schedule; it’s the execution that eludes me. See, I’ve been a top notch procrastinator since I was a child (though I can’t remember a time that I ever willingly missed a meal...). It was generally the mundane, everyday tasks that were neglected – like homework and chores. As an adult its mostly important paperwork, phone calls, making dinner, and other household related things.

It was all well and good when I was putting off the boring tasks that had to be done, but I’ve now started putting off the stuff I enjoy doing. In the past, when there was something I was really looking forward to, I’d jump up and go through all the preparations to get me to my goal as quickly as possible - including vaulting out of bed when the alarm went off. However, my procrastinating has reached an all time high. It is no longer selective.

Take last night for example.

I was texting my would-have-been date from this past weekend. (For those that don’t follow my every move on Twitter, he had to cancel because he and his child came down with strep throat.) We were discussing having dinner together tonight. It was decided that we would catch up this afternoon and if we’re both still available we’ll go, and I will stay in the city at The Grandmother’s house so I don’t have to drive all the way home so late on a work night.

A seemingly simple plan, yes? No! There is a part two that the man has no idea about. Preparations, people! And as soon as we ended our conversation I began laying it all out in my head:

“Ok. Since it’s highly likely that this is going to happen tomorrow night, I need to get moving and get some shit done. Let’s see....laundry! I need those black lace boy shorts. Just in case, it’s not like I plan on removing them or anything, but what if the wind blows my dress up? He should know that even though I have no intention of sleeping with him on the first date, I’m wearing the underwear that says ‘could if I wanted too bitch, HA’!

Um, I need to pack options...clothes to change into after work. I’ll get ready at The Grandmother’s. I’ll already have my hair and makeup done so that won’t take long. Let’s see, feel the legs...wow! That’s shameful. I won’t have time to do it in the morning so as soon as Glee is over it’s time to shower and shave those bad boys. And should I maybe make sure the rest looks good? No. No, if I do that I’ll probably sleep with him. I mean, yes! I should...just in case there’s a freak accident and we end up in the same hospital room and the nurse doesn’t cover my bits. That is a completely valid excuse.

So let’s put it all together now, tick it off on the fingers: Glee, laundry, shower, shave, exfoliate, pack, go to sleep and wake up thirty minutes early in order to have time to do my makeup extra well. Go to work, go to TG’s, model three or four clothing options while TG frowns disapprovingly and asks questions about his religious background, meet him for dinner, go to the bathroom at some point to check nose for boogers, teeth for food, and Tweet about how drunk I’m getting on wine.

Should I write all of this down? Nah...Totally got it.”

However things didn’t exactly happen that way. As soon as Glee was over, I launched into full procrastination mode.

“I’ll just finish this one episode of Mad Men that I was watching before Glee came on. I won’t watch the other two that are on this disk. Just the one.”

A little over two hours later:

“Fucking fuck – its 11:15! Sigh. Oh well, I’ll just set my alarm for 4am. I’ll have plenty of time to do everything in the morning.”

4:30am this morning:

“SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! Fuck you, Tina!”

6:15am this morning:

“SHIT! 15 minutes! SLAM! This is all your fault!”

And that, my friends, is how it is done.

That means that its 11am and I’ve done none of the preparations on my list, other than throwing all of my outfit choices, makeup, and toiletries in a bag and running out the door. On the plus side, I was only four minutes late for work this morning. Unfortunately, I’m now going to TG’s to shower on my lunch break so my hair will look decent by this evening, then going back after work to finish the process. You know, if I was a dude and I didn’t have to go through all of this grooming stuff, I probably wouldn’t be such a procrastinator. Maybe. It’s so tiring!

Anyway, my mother says that there is something mentally wrong with me, that no one can knowingly put off things that are really important without having a screw loose. “You just sit there with your damn book! Get up! Get up! What are you looking at? There’s nothing there! Did you pay that bill? Did you get the clothes out of the dryer? Did you call and make that appointment? Well, did you?!”

“Er...no.”

“WHY NOT?”

“I dunno. I was...hey! Listen to this! Do you hear that? ‘Dun nuh! Dun nuh, dun nuh, dun nuh! I want it with whipped cream on it baby gimmie gimmie gimmie your loooooove!’ OMG, Ma, I love this song!”

“I’m going to kill you.”

Apparently, shocker of shockers, my mother is actually right. Not about killing me, I don’t think she has the stomach for that. But behold this sentence from Wikipedia: “Chronic procrastination may be a sign of an underlying psychological disorder.” Sigh. Of course, I’m forced to believe it because Wikipedia is the internet Bible for gangstas. Wicky wicky.

Unfortunately, though I searched for quite some time, I was unable to find a website that claims procrastination is hereditary. In fact, several of them shockingly claim that there is no possible way it could be. This was most disheartening and I’d all but given up on my plans to print out an article on the subject and share it with my mother. Until I read this sentence:

“Procrastinators often have great difficulty in seeking help, or finding an understanding source of support, due to the stigma and profound misunderstanding surrounding extreme forms of procrastination.”

In your FACE ma! All you had to do was be an understanding source of support, instead of nagging me all the fucking time.

“Why haven’t you found a new therapist? Why can’t you make a stinking appointment with a therapist? Huh, huh, why!”

It’s simple! I can’t, it’s too difficult to seek help! I am doomed to circle the drain of task aversion (including, but not limited to, the task of finding a new therapist) until I’m eventually sucked down into the rusty pipes of underachievement and overwhelming failure. Whereupon I will be committed, someone will finally have done it all for me, and I can blame it all on my father in the therapy sessions they haul me to three times a day in a straight jacket. I win.

Sweet! Lunch time!

Gangster therapy, wicky wicky

Aren’t words fun? I think so.

Take “Fuck” for example. It’s fun to do, fun to say. If it were a high school student “Fuck” would be the class president. Or the retarded kid on the debate team because they always address him by name, you know. “Fuck, it’s your turn.”

That’s not really relevant to what I’m talking about today. Just thought I’d share.

I’m looking for a new therapist. It’s been a few years since I’ve seen one up close and I have issues that need to be fondled. Resolved. Taken care of. Explored.

The last one moved away suddenly to parts unknown, which I was told had nothing to do with me what-so-ever and was because of “familial issues”. That wasn’t terribly reassuring since it came from the building’s night janitor.

"Well Fuck, man! (See what I did there?) That’s why I’M here! Familial issues! Sins of the father! I’m convinced The Grandmother is Satan! My boss put a bun in my oven and it came out fully cooked and covered in goo and now I don’t know what to do with it!"

I’m kidding about the janitor part, of course. He was just a sloppy man nurse that looked like a janitor. But he did give me some advice free of charge. “Stop talking. Go home.”

I forgot to mention I have anger issues too. It didn’t take him but a few seconds to figure it out though. Wow. He must have been a very skilled reader of the body language. Or I might have kicked him in the shins and ran (side stepped slowly) away yelling “Thanks asshole!” Or not, in case there’s a warrant or something...

Anyway, I was really upset about her (the therapist) leaving. She was the first one that, in a session with my mother, told me I was right. HA! FACE!

My very first therapist was a large woman with curly black hair named Nancy. I was around 8, I think. My parents sent me to her for reasons I’m still not clear on. Either I tried to play plastic surgeon with my little sister or it was because my dad was always in jail and shit. Like, one of those programs...therapy for children with criminal parents, you know? Could’ve been both. I’m so gangster. Wicky wicky.

But I really only remember one session with her. We were sitting at a little table and I was sulking, as I so often did when adults made me interact instead of sticking my nose in a book and my hand in a chip bag.

She put all this different colored playdough on the table and said she wanted me to pick a color for each member of my immediate family and mold it into what I thought best represented them. It could be anything, she said.

After the proper amount of disinterest, I finally allowed myself to pick up the purple dough. She sat there and watched quietly while I rolled and patted. I balled my hand into a fist, leaving one finger up, and pressed the back of it into the flattened dough. I held it up for her to see: a nice outline of my birdie finger.

“And who does this represent”, she asked.

“My sister”, I said.

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because my mom says she eats like a little bird, but she doesn’t. She eats all my snacks.”

“Uh huuuuuhhhh.”

Even therapist grown ups didn’t get me. Sigh.

I reached for the yellow dough and fashioned a smiley face with a big gaping mouth.

“And who is this?”

“Mom.”

“Can you tell...”

“Because she’s always smiling when she doesn’t want to.”

“Ok. And your dad next...”, she prompted.

I hesitated. I thought, “What could I possibly make that would describe my daddy so she’d understand and stop asking me to do stupid kiddy stuff? I’m eight and reading Wuthering Heights for gawd’s sake. The fat kid isn’t stupid.”

I picked up the red dough and rolled it into a ball between my palms. I put it down in front of me and looked at her. Her mouth opened as if she would say something, but before she did, I lifted my arm and brought my fist down hard, slamming it into the ball of dough and smashing it into the table.

She stared at me, speechless.

“Because he’s an asshole”, I offered. “Got any chips?”

My next encounter with therapy wasn’t until my late teens. My grandmother was convinced that I was possessed by a demon that made me smoke “the marijuana”. She offered to get me another car (my last one was taken, but that’s another story for another day) if I agreed to see a therapist for my anger and drug issues. I didn’t have any drug issues. I loved pot. But I agreed. Free car bitches. Wicky wicky.

Yeah, it so wasn’t worth it. A Neon. Pssh. Nothing gangster about that.

The guy was a pompous dick. I mean the whole enchilada: steepled fingers, tiny goatee, tiny glasses, and the facial expression of a puckered asshole.

We had four sessions, two of which included my mother and The Grandmother. The only thing he accomplished in those four hours was to tell me how much of a shit head I was and drool all over The Grandmother’s orthopedic shoes.

He tape recorded our sessions, which I found irritating...especially since the majority of it was his voice. He kept the tapes, but he made copies for me (read: TG). Like I’d want copies! What was I going to do with them? Masturbate to the sound of his nasally undertones? Not likely.

At our fourth session, I’d finally had it. I don’t remember what he said that sent me over the edge...but over the edge I went. I jumped up and stormed out, but not before leaving him something to remember me by.

The tape recorder was recording away on the little table in the middle of the room. On my way by I leaned into the speaker and said something that included “Fuck”. And probably asshat. Wish I could remember the whole thing because I'm sure it was quite brilliant, and for some reason I didn't get a copy of THAT tape...mores the pity.

TG decided that she’d still give me the car if I agreed to a gym membership. Because everybody knows that if you can’t go to therapy, exercise is the next best thing. So is pretending that you’re exercising at the gym when you’re really having hottanasty sex. Wicky wicky.

I’ve had other therapists less memorable and quickly gotten rid of, but now it’s time for another.

And this time, I’m going to get the right one. One with a sense of humor and a no nonsense attitude. One that won’t lick TG’s shoes or disappear into the night.

One that will use word association....because that’s really what it’s all about. They say when...I say where. They say how...I say much. They say penis...I say yes, please. They say prescription medication...I say true THAT.

Dear Future Therapist,

I’m coming for you.

Love,

Me.