According to Ben Franklin — well, his is the most famous version of the idea, anyway — nothing in this life is certain except death and taxes.
I would add to those the following:
Me, procrastinating, even about something I wanted to do in the first place, namely this blog project.
Some will probably say the first two of my additions don’t need to be separate, that laundry could easily be considered a subset of housework, and I would partly agree. If you’re looking at it from the standpoint of how things look and you’re the sort who keeps the laundry kind of wherever it happens to land when you segue from one outfit to another, then yes, doing laundry is part of cleaning house. To me, they’re separate because most of the time, laundry is about how I present myself in the world, i.e., clean clothes to wear. And I manage to keep it corralled in a hamper.
At any rate, it’s more the procrastination that’s at issue today. I’ve read time and again that it takes something on the order of 21 days to form a new habit, and since I’ve been doing this here bloggy project for more than four times that long, well, you’d think it would have taken hold by now, wouldn’t you?
And yet, here I am writing something to backdate, essentially, for Day 91 when in reality this should be Day 95’s post.
I think my brain has decided that every time I miss a day, I need to restart the counter for forming a habit. Which is counterproductive and kinda silly, it seems to me. It isn’t as if anyone’s forcing me to do this, I came up with it all by my lonesome, so you’d think keeping up with it would be less of a chore.
Less like death, taxes, laundry and housework, anyway.
On the other hand, beating myself up for missing days only makes me more likely to continue not writing on a daily basis, and I’ve had enough of that pattern, thanks so much.
And so I will learn to give myself the gift of not beating myself up if I miss, or deliberately skip, a day. Instead, I will acknowledge I fell off the blogging wagon, then climb back on the blasted thing and blog again. Hiyo Silver, away!
Or something like that.
In other news, I bought a couple of folding chairs to take to the Burn, and got a tent (on sale! Center height 72 inches so I can actually stand up in it to get dressed!) over the weekend. Now to add a sleeping bag — singular if I can find a double, or two I can zip together if all I can find are singles — and I won’t have to borrow gear from my stylist, which cuts down some of the pre- and post-Burn running around.
Not quite sure what to do about the cats this year, though. Last year I paid the handyman (who is also a tenant here) to come in twice a day for the feeding and water-bowl upkeep and litter-box duty, and to turn on the air conditioner in the morning if the weather forecast was for temps higher than 90 degrees and turn it off in the evening. Came home last year after dropping off my last carpooler, noticed as I got out of the rent-a-van that it was nearly 100 degrees, got my key, got inside…
It was hotter than the hinges of Hades in here when I opened the door, because the air conditioner was NOT ON. The handyman decided to get creative with the programming function on the a/c, and if he had set it correctly, the unit should have been on. But it wasn’t, and Poppet was sitting on the end of my bed panting.
Cats don’t pant, not unless they have a very high fever or are in heat stress. I turned the a/c to plain ordinary ON and the temp display said it was 99 degrees…but it only has space on the display for two digits, so it wouldn’t have surprised me to learn is was actually closer to 105. It took an hour for it to cool off enough in here for Poppet and Garbo (who had somehow gotten into the cabinet under the sink) to breath without panting, and I spent every minute of that hour watching both of them for signs the cooler air wasn’t working and I should take them to the vet.
Had I decided to stop anywhere else on the way home, or had I spent even a little bit more time visiting with my carpoolers when I dropped them off, I might well have come home to find Poppet and Garbo in full-on heat stroke, if not dead.
Needless to say, I will not be asking him to take care of my cats again, since he proved he’d rather do it his way than do what I asked, even if it risks their health. But this means either boarding the cats, which will cost a mint, or hiring a petsitter, which has its own pluses and minuses. Unless my landlady volunteers again, and I’d honestly rather pay her to do it than a stranger, but she sometimes goes out of town on business and I don’t know how far in advance she knows her schedule.
I suppose I shouldn’t worry about it until I actually have a ticket, but planning ahead is a good thing. 🙂