Have you ever put off an undesirable task until the last possible minute, making it ten times as difficult as needed? Unfortunately, I do this all too often.
My latest procrastination story began last August when I was inspired to redecorate my office. The source of this motivation was a framed set of pink, white and turquoise doilies crocheted by Aunt Susan. Painting the room, using my favorite aunt’s color choices, would add a special touch. Forgetting that on a scale of one to 10 (one being high) my decorator-crafting skills rank minus 10, I foolishly jumped into the project going so far as to measure the room and buy paint.
Unfortunately, the summer weather was so nice, I had no trouble putting off the job. Besides, the sugar peas needed picking. Plenty of time in the fall.
Sometime in September, the tedious chores created by painting came to mind; furniture to be moved and covered… paint brushes to be cleaned…I’ll do it later, I told myself as the birch trees turned yellow.
Okay, next weekend, I promised while prepping the Thanksgiving turkey.
January’s too cold, I muttered trudging through snowbanks. February would be better.
One March day, I understood that putting off the rotten task was no longer an option. With winter vacation just over the horizon and summer ahead, my painting project simply had to be done.
The results of my procrastination hit hard. First, I had forgotten exactly which paint colors I’d chosen and was dumbfounded when I pulled off the lids of the paint cans.
Eugh…had I really chosen these colors? I thought my choices were softer, more subtle. Should I put it off and think about it? No, I’d done enough of that. I forged ahead and painted one wall. When it was finished, I hated it. It took two frantic trips to the hardware store and one full day of repainting before I was satisfied.
I spent the next two weeks fretting about colors all the while spackling, sanding, painting, applying masking tape, (and let me tell you it’s not as easy as it looks when the guys on television do it) clambering up and down the stepladder, moving furniture and wondering what ever had possessed me to start such a project. Never again, I grumbled through gritted teeth. I must have been a real joy to live with.
Finally, one afternoon, it was finished. I washed out the last paint brush and roller, stood back and took a long look at my project. It wasn’t bad. In fact, I liked it. The room felt fresh and clean, and I did love the warm colors.
However, I’ve suffered one strange consequence. I notice walls. While watching NCIS the other night, suddenly I sat up straight. “Look at the wall!” I told Dick. “It’s pink.”
And I couldn’t help myself at the ophthalmologist’s office. When left alone in the room, I quickly hopped out of my chair to check the strip of brown molding on the green wall before anyone returned Yep. It had been pre-painted.
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