The Gambler

A friend was telling me about a relative of hers who had worked himself into an uncomfortable situation and was now seeking treatment for a gambling addiction. She told me that through his rehabilitation she had learned that gamblers aren't addicted to winning. What they're addicted to is the feeling of almost loosing it all and then somehow squeaking by. The thrill they seek doesn't come from success, but from managing against all probable odds not to fail.

As she was telling me this story I immediately recognized myself. That same gasp of heart-rate altering fear is what makes me procrastinate. And in the two years since making the connection between myself and an addictive personality I've become much better at time management, although still put things off from time to time (for instance... tonight) just for the excitement of it.

I have a friend who suffers from the same malady of supreme procrastination. I told him the first paragraph of this story and he immediately recognized himself and even made the connection that it's a dysfunctional way to work--that it compromises the project and that the guys who work for him don't get anything out of it other than stress and frustration.

Barnes & Noble carries books about procrastination. I first noticed them about a decade ago but have always put off reading them. However, had I read one or two ten years back I might be that much further ahead of the game. My friend at work is a reader. It's possible he's walked by them on the shelf, too.

It's a subcategory of books that could use some clever marketing.

BC

BC accepted my friend request.

Mentor, I hope you're ready for me--I might be a bit of a challenge.

Mr. Cellophane

Glee is Heathers for thirty-somethings and is my new favorite confection.

Fox got it right with their new musical satire and after watching the pilot twice on Hulu, I'm thinking that September is much too long for Fair and Balanced to expect me to wait to see episode two. It's a tease and teasing isn't fair. We all know that. And it would only be balanced if I teased Fox first; and even if I did, I'm pretty sure Fox didn't hear me so it can't possibly count.

It's Memorial Day and I'm home with the dog. Saturday morning there was a cow moose and two spring calves in the yard. Yesterday on a hike, Dasha and a black bear shared a small stream; they were both thirsty. Today I finished sewing a pair of cammi pants into a tote.

Like the Marc Jacobs wearing kid who auditions with Mr. Cellophane on Glee, I'm feeling a little invisible. Alaska makes me feel invisible.

Chicago was a competition. The Navy was a competition. Either by conforming and striving, or by eschewing the standard set of rules, competitions make it easy to stand out.

In Alaska most women are content to dress like, and maintain the same physique as, men. Coworkers don't seem to care how much I achieve. And while it's not a marker of geography but of age, I'm old enough that my mother has stopped waiting for me to turn into something.

It's suddenly, and for the first time, OK to be average.

That's not OK with me. I want to live a Jane Austin novel where choosing the unexpected has fantastic potential. And the sticking point is that I don't have anyone here to talk to about it. I don't have a Flaco to encourage chasing the well-suited-to-me arcane. And I don't have a Master Chief to encourage the well-suited-to-me obvious and frequently traveled path.

Time is the indulgence of the thirty-something and childless and with my indulgence I'm stewing. Probably not the best choice. (But for what it's worth, today I've also started a lawn of clover, planted ferns, rearrange the rock gardens, washed the winter down jackets, and stitched a tote out of old pants.) If I was all aflutter with three kids I wouldn't write this, wouldn't have the time to write this, and wouldn't have the time to think it.

So where does that leave me? With the need to find a motivator. I've always been good with external motivators, but in their absence, now is the time to harvest from within.

Before

After