Pretty fly for any-colored individual, for that matter, is quite a compliment indeed, which is what a friend just called this procrastinator. If there ever was a king of procrastination, I’d be runner-up to the crown. Even my weekly post for the new month of February is making it at the last minute on the end of the first week—like a charging baseball player’s sliding into home plate, safely and soundly.
Spring training starts on the 19th. Winter officially ends a little over a month from then. The spawning anticipation of springtime becomes feverish at that point, and the worst season for this lover of warm weather is close to being a somewhat fond memory; although, late-February and March can be brutal. Let’s hope for the former and not the latter.
What brought on procrastination was my having to do the dreaded food-shopping on a Saturday. Only masochists do their shopping on the weekend. Sadists might love it as well, those blasted numb-nuts who are the ones dealing out utter frustration.
Masochism is not a favorite pastime of mine. In fact, it’s one of the top-ten worst things on my list. My procrastinate alternative today would have been to break into the canned stuff: ravioli, mac and cheese, or lasagna for dinner, a semi-masochistic diversion.
That’s not so bad though, but tolerated only for a couple of days before the body calls out for justice with the want of sustenance from the local pizzeria or Chinese take-out: OK for a day or two, but needlessly expensive. Hence, as a result of procrastination, masochism was added to today’s agenda.
What makes a person want to procrastinate? Laziness is up there as an explanation, but who wants to be labeled as such? Less wear and tear on the body is another, only to become null-and-void during a masochistic, Saturday melee in the supermarket.
Yes, the infamous aisle-blockers were out in full force: the sadistic ones who, when approached and asked nicely to let me pass, turn and give me that look, as if I were inconveniencing them. “Get your #!@#$%&* shopping cart out of the way,” is running through my head whilst I bite my tongue and smile at lady like the smart-ass that I am.
The multitude of cell-phone users, speaking exceedingly loud and following me around, are worth a mention. The crowd of people at the meat section, all comparing the price of every piece of butchered red meat in the refrigerated case, blocking access to the slaughtered beef, could have been victims of a few ear flicks; you know, flicking your thumb and forefinger together to elicit a flapping and stinging sensation onto their ear lobes.
Packaged paper plates that have decreased previously in amounts from 100 pieces in total to 90 were found today to be 70 in quantity, for the same price as always. At least the tin of brown shoe polish is the same size as the one in which I’m about to run out. I bet the price is higher, albeit, no comparative pricing is available.
Finally, la creme de ma tante was my checking out behind the woman whose coupon didn’t go through, her insisting on speaking to a manager about why it didn’t—even though the poor girl behind the counter explained the intended product wasn’t the one on sale—holding up the line further when she searched in her handbag for a checkbook, pen, store card, and ID.
Who in the world doesn’t have an ATM card? Who uses checks anymore? As my luck would have it, probably the only one in the Frankford-Morell neighborhood of Philadelphia was standing in front of me.
Enough of complaining, as I tend to do in great volume; but that makes wonderful fodder as necessary for when my writing procrastination is up and subject matter has to be pulled out of a hat.
Thanks for stopping by from time to time. Catch you at the next rant.