I'll get around to it sometime

There are things that are worse to think about than to do. Childbirth is not one of them. Women fondly look forward to this magical experience and are surprised when they fantasize about performing their own cesarean section with a plastic knife left on a cafeteria hospital tray to circumvent a slow moving cervix. Your child’s band concert is another. You buy the instrument, pester the child to practice, circle the day on the calendar for the concert. You pack the camera, arrive early so you can sit up front…and as grade after grade performs song after song, you think I should have packed a magazine but settle on making a grocery list on an envelope.

No. The things that are worse to think about than to do mostly involve weight loss and exercise. If these thoughts were movies they’d have dim lights, long shadows, fog, and scary music. They aren’t surrounded by friendly forest animals, singing blue birds, and peppy Disney princesses. They are dark, dreadful things to be avoided at all costs.

For this reason, I hit the pause button four times this morning. It was raining. I had no choice. The plan was to head directly into the basement to do Tony Horton’s plyometrics tape. But this is not something you look forward to. It’s torture, actually marketed as such in infomercials. It’s like income taxes, blue jean or bathing suit shopping. Something that requires mental preparation and surplus inner strength.

I made coffee. Checked e-mail. Put a load of laundry in. When I started addressing Christmas cards, I realized I was procrastinating.

I bought a self-help book about procrastination by Dr. Bill Knaus about 15 years ago. I was a single professional living in Washington, D.C. What I had to put off in those days I don’t know—shopping, talking on the phone, eating cold Chinese food in bed.

I was surprised to discover six months ago that the good Dr. Knaus had a summer house nearby. He volunteered to give a free lecture at my workplace. I brought my book in to show him. I figured it was first edition. I planned to have him autograph it. The pages were yellowed and brittle, like old paperbacks from college. As he thumbed through it telling stories of his famous co-author Albert Ellis, he asked me what I thought of it.

I pawed the ground with my new pumps, lowered my chin, and mumbled, “I haven’t read it yet.”

I always put things off to the last minute. Office work. School work. House work. See a pattern? I have never, however, delayed eating, drinking, or sleeping. Those jobs rise to the top of my to-do list as if they were inflated with helium.

I finally tired of my own stalling tactics. I have limits. I was acting like a 9-year-old fighting bedtime. I am supposed be to work by 8 AM and I was rapidly wasting whatever prep time I had. I was going to have to pony tail dirty hair and show up without makeup if I didn’t get a move on.

I descended the basement stairs and mechanically put in the exercise DVD. Before I knew it, I was squatting, lunging, and jumping in circles. It wasn’t so bad. I used to teach aerobics in high school and college. I can do this. It’ll be over before I know it. I was working in my target heart zone, a place I hadn’t been in a while. I could feel the calories burning. I imagined myself shoveling carbs into a coal stove like a locomotive engine. For the next move, Tony explained we had to swing our legs, first right, then left, over a chair or stool for 60 seconds. I readied myself, steadying my hands on my sides for the challenge. Much to my surprise, I felt a hip bone. I could cup either side with one hand. It was hard and protruding. I poked and wiggled at my flesh. Yes, an actual bone in my hip. Who would have guessed?

Maybe Dr. Bill Knaus. He signed my book, “Just do it.”