No pain, no gain. You reap what you sow. Just do it!
Simple, but not always easy.
If I had a dollar for every time I’ve procrastinated I’d be clipping coupons on a tropical island. Yet, once the foot-dragging ends and I dig in, I’m productive. Some might say, almost normal.
As a youngster, I feigned stomach aches to avoid putting on a frilly dress to play Pin the Tail on the Donkey. As a grandmother I get agita when required to upgrade to ladylike from my threadbare jeans and spaghetti-stained sweatshirt.
While I’ve spoken to writers’ groups, presided over panels, and appeared on the Today show, entering a roomful of strangers reduces my innards to tapioca. I’d rather scrub toilets than give a speech. Once, in the green room of a Washington, D.C., TV station, I prayed for a root canal in lieu of doing a live interview. I nailed the Q&A. And the next day I needed a root canal. (That was the last time I prayed for anything.)
During my second puberty—or was it the third?—I took the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator and found out I was an introvert. Since then I’ve given myself permission to act nervous and jerky when anxiety or overstimulation overwhelm me.
Introvert poster child Bill Gates said, “acting like an extrovert is an out-of-body experience.” Roger. Remembering Bill’s words calms me when putting on a happy face after no sleep, or stepping outside my comfort zone. I practice relaxation techniques PRN before attending gatherings where I know only the host and his pet piranha.
I’m envious of extroverts like my friend Carolyn. After a day crammed with back-to-back meetings, she socializes with friends ‘til the wee small hours and considers it fun. But a diet of nonstop chatter upsets my delicate constitution. Whenever I overindulge, I can be counted on to run screaming from the building.
So here I am, stalling. I risk missing the train to the ASJA conference. Not because I need a sales pitch. Didn’t I plunk down a chunk of change to hobnob with the best and brightest? I value networking and keeping abreast of industry changes. And reconnecting with colleagues will fuel me for months. Maybe years.
Yet I’m repeating the same old dance—watering plants, folding laundry, searching for a purse I probably donated to Goodwill in 1983.
My partner paces. His voice scales an octave. “We have to leave now.”
My pulse quickens. Maybe I’ll scrub the kitchen floor. Or groom the dog. Or pluck my eyebrows. Again.
Glancing in the mirror, I give myself a head slap. Put on your big-girl panties and just do it!