Final Countdown

So, five (well, four-ish) days and counting until I bid farewell to my current job, my corner window office (with a lovely view of the building across the way) and some badass coworkers who have learned that I have a penchant for old school Tribe Called Quest intermixed with Jeff Buckley and the occasional Babs/Barry Gibb duet. It’s a wonder anyone on this hall gets any work done with the sounds of my MP3 player warbling bad 80’s tunes and R. Kelly.

As such, I have impressed even myself with my ability to procrastinate. I have, surprisingly enough, a full plate this week — freelance features due tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday, a bevy of follow-up calls for she she me, interviews for aforementioned feature story, final expense reports, cleaning up my abominably messy desk, and yet I sit here, hitting “send/receive” on Outlook, IMing friends, contemplating purchasing a new book, editing stories, talking on the phone to Tucker Max, and generally wasting the very time that would be better-suited doing all of the things that I’m supposed to be doing anyway.

How is this? I work well under pressure. I’m the quintessential Type-A-when-needed person who has only recently learned the inherent wonderfulness of the snooze button and leaving things until the last minute. Granted, I’m a card-carrying over-committer and have definitely taken on more than I can handle, but this is getting a little out of hand. I sit here. I look at my to-do list (which, by the way, MUST have the words “To Do” at the top of it, as if I could easily confuse it with, say, a letter or a “Not-To-Do” list. Idiotic, but creatures of habit and all that…) I check my web stats. I wander to to check the weather for Steeplechase and for Chicago next week. I hit “Send/Receive.” I remember I should email [insert anyone in my cell phone who is likely to receive a drunken call or five from me] about [anything and everything.] I IM a few more friends. I look at the expense report screen, get lazy. I look at the envelope containing approx. $1000 of receipts to GET my newest expense report, and give it an angry glare at the fact that its weight exceeds the two stamps I have. I contemplate going to the post office, deciding against it. I look online for tap shoes that aren’t 1/2 size too small, and then remember I need to email [insert random friend here] to tell them about my on-camera tap dance routine that I performed for Atlanta’s Finest on Saturday night outside the gas station, ending my performance with a big bow and the statement “Am I gonna be on Cops?” (Apparently, not likely, but I’ve got wagers on whether or not this shows up at the next FOP Christmas party.) I think and try to remember where I put my book and wonder if I should try and hit Barnes & Noble after work. I refresh the message board. I re-check my stats, noting that they haven’t gone up. I look at my to-do list with the ever-growing knawing stress that NOTHING is getting the much-needed checkmark next to it. I feed George. I put on some hand lotion. I refill my 32-oz water cup as a feeble attempt to stop my stomach from performing yet another exercise in anxiety. I remember that I need to email my date for tomorrow night. I continue to type this entry.

By now, you get the picture.

What is my problem, kids? Anyone have any solutions?

7 thoughts on “Final Countdown

  1. I thought you had already been on cops. By now you should receive Heather Locklear “Melrose Place” special guest star status. (your name in the credits and a high salary…)

  2. Sadly, unintentionally deleted the lovely cab photos and Sarah has the Cheyenne Grill ones. I do have a few semi-incriminating ones from the Tap, though…just no comments allowed on WHY they may be incriminating.

  3. I don’t have any solutions…except to say, “It’s not just you, dogg!” My procrastinating ways top yours only in that they are accompanied by insane paranoid thoughts… “The members of my new account team just shut the door… are they talking about how much I SUCK? …Did they see me reading my latest e-vite/Aubrey’s thoughts/the web site from the camp I attended WHEN I WAS 12??? Did my boss hear the sound ‘you’ve got mail’ coming from my cube? HE DID, I KNOW HE DID!!!”

  4. pop culture is what it is — beyond the quintessential lyrics, Dooce and her adorably-suited husband can never usurp me. Even if my comments were posted before them, it’s likely to say they thought it before me. We all need inspirations, and they may be mine.

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