Ever written an entire entry only to lose all your information in one stupid movement? The loss ultimately resulting in rage at the wasted time you just spent writing something that now has to be completely recreated?
Yeah. Me too.
So, here we go again.
This morning, I was perched atop my usual spot, cup o' joe in hand, intently reading on my laptop, ignoring my children who were currently high on halloween candy remnants, when Jamin happened through the room. Interrupting me for the third time...
"You know we have to leave soon," he stated, matter of factly as he passed through. We had a birthday party to attend.
"Yeah." I responded, sulkily that he was calling me out on my negligent indulgences. And then, though weakly disguising the defensiveness in my voice: "I just found this blog..it's so funny. I'm about to go get ready."
"I'll believe that when I see it," Jamin responded, the humor now rising in his voice.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You just totally procrastinate when it comes to getting ready. You could go get ready NOW and then read your blogs"
"I do not!" I quipped, now thoroughly irritated that this current interruption was lasting so long, not to mention his point slightly valid. "And if I go get ready now, my wonderful me moment is then lost to child preparation," I added.
Jamin didn't answer. He simply gestured in the direction of me, sitting on the couch in my coffee induced splendor.
"Humph" I responded, officially huffy. "I enjoy my morning time."
"It's all the time," He responded quickly, referring to my obnoxious habit of running about the house, like a decapitated chicken in desperate attempts to get myself and the children to various locations on time.
It was ten more minutes before I rose from my spot, begrudgingly dragging myself into the bathroom to make myself appear socially acceptable.
I don't procrastinate. Not usually, anyway. If anything, I have the opposite problem of procrastination. I am the Monica of accomplishing jobs, and I never leave one undone. So, when Jamin pointed out the obvious to me this morning, it was like holding a mirror to my face and revealing a zit I couldn't see until he revealed it. So, I will now revise my previous claim.
I, Ashley Mills, to the best of my conscious knowledge, now officially procrastinate on two things: Laundry, and getting ready.
I don't know what it is, but I simply despise self preparation. Nearly as much as folding socks AFTER I match the pairs. Something about getting off my comfy spot, my free time interrupted, all so I can venture into the bathroom and smear on some lipstick, appearing socially acceptable in something other than my pajama bottoms is simply unappealing to me. I usually can appreciate the end result. Don't get me wrong. I just hate the energy it takes.
I don't know why my current state of motherhood has suddenly made me like this. Correction: I think I was always like this. I like looking "pretty" or "nice" but I procrastinate to the point that I have no time to accomplish such things by the time I have gathered up the children and make them appear just as appealing to the general public. The problem has been amplified over the years.
Perhaps it just isn't worth the effort sometimes. Why throw on that beautiful silk shirt my mother gave me (out of fear I am letting myself go, though she declares it wasn't part of her motivations...) when Emerson will simply vomit or poop on it before I leave the house? If not those horrible experiences, than at least a speck of drool shall defile my holy most sacrament of banana republic splendor. Why don that cute black dress, when my boob will be smeared with peanut butter and jelly before I make my way to the door? That green sweater crusted with snot on my left shoulder, because SOMEONE keeps burying her face in it? And for what? So my husband will think I'm pretty? So someone might fling a complement into the dark waters of my viable, post baby self esteem?
I haven't gotten a pedicure in months, much less taken the time to touch up my crusty toe nails. I finally scheduled a hair appointment for next week because I was able to find the time. Television shows like "What Not to Wear" are successful because of people like me.
I used to laugh at the "freaks" who invested in the time to have makeup tattooed onto their faces. And now, I think I totally see where they were coming from. This process was invented by Mommies who don't appreciate their valuable time being interrupted all so they can appear "beautiful."
I'm seriously considering it. They've already penciled me in for the eyeliner tats.
I'm really completely at arms with these so-called fabo celebrities who are hailed as glorious beings every time they venture into public. America worships them. If I had a freakin team of highly paid hair stylists, makeup artists, air brush specialists, trainers, and someone to watch my neglected children while pumping my boobs full of jelly filled sacks, dare I say it, but in the process, I think I would look just as good as the next Jessica Simpson, or Angelina Jolie. (OH MY GOSH COULD SHE LOOK more like a DUCK???) I've already covered Britney. That one's easy. Just roll out of bed and you're doing a better job.
Does anyone KNOW how plain jane JLO is in real life? Yeah. I'm digressing. I could do it all day.
All of us would look just as picturesque as the next celeb. And that's my point.
Talk about overrated. You can find me getting my tats done by the same dude who gave me my belly button ring in the days of yore. I think his name was Doc Robinson. He sounds promising in the area of eyeliner. Perhaps he can squeeze in some Botox injections before I go home.
All so I can have more time doing what I REALLY want to do...procrastinate, while drinking my coffee.
I'm off to fold some laundry.