Thirty-six pairs of boxer shorts, twenty-three flights of stairs, three beers and one DVD later, my life is beginning to approach normal.
I wouldn’t go so far as to call myself a full-fledged procrastinator, but I’m not very good at maintenance.
Example: I pay my bills when I have to. When, for example, I turn on the television and see a black screen with white letters that reads “Please Call Your Cable Provider To Restore Service.”
Example: I do laundry when I have to. When, for example, my closet won’t shut for the piles upon piles of jeans, t-shirts, and boxers.
Example: I go to the doctor when I have to. When, for example, the pain in my back is so intense that I can barely stand.
I call it triage. I deal with what I need to when I need to. I fit myself in between the work, the travel, the rock, the running, the relationship… the real world.
The downside to this strategy (or lack there of) is that things can turn ugly fast. My cable bill was $306. My laundry took four hours. My back… well, my back’s fine. For now. But what happens when I’m sixty-years-old?
When I grow up, I want to be better at maintenance. I want to take better care the basics. I can pull a record together — recording, mixing, mastering, artwork, duplication, marketing, t-shirts, tour — but I can’t keep my cable service online, my clothes clean, or my body in check.
I’ll get around to it one of these days.