I don’t really know what nut or bolt is loose in my brain that sometimes makes me put more effort into procrastinating than it would take just to do the thing I am avoiding. A classic Kori example is this massive mountain of dishrags that I collect on my bedside table. It is often so well accumulated, that it graces my floor with a cotton avalanche everytime I pass by it. My bed is where I sort my laundry, as it is the second biggest shelf in the house. (The floor is the biggest of course, but I try to avoid getting dust bunnies on the clean clothes right out of the gate.) I don’t know why, but the task of putting those dishrags up in the kitchen in the drawer where they belong suddenly becomes the most inconvenient thing ever. The long trek to the kitchen in the next room suddenly becomes as if I had to cross a Lego desert barefoot carrying an armful of rabid roosters. Do roosters get rabies? Apparently not according to this. But try to imagine it anyway. In reality it takes less than 30 seconds to fold, stack, and put up my dishrags, yet I watch my pile accumulate for days until I can no longer see the other pile of miscellaneous crap that I usually keep on my table until I’m forced to clear it so I can use my ceiling fan. (If you aren’t from Arkansas, you may now reread that story and replace the word “dishrag” with “kitchen towel.”
I discussed in a past article
Why I’ll Never Be Good at Adulting how I have a lot of experience avoiding talking on the phone. Well, I just returned from a three month maternity leave where the only earnings I drew were earning medical bills in a pile on the counter. Most were from the whole baby birthin’ thing, but a few were actually from the surgical clinic because I had to have butt surgery four days before my due date on some Hellish hemorrhoids. See details here. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been getting calls from a number I suspected was the clinic wanting their money. But, they weren’t leaving messages yet, so how serious could it really be? Better wait until I actually have money than to answer, take a reprimand from a stranger, and not be able to pay anyway. I’m really not used to not being able to pay my bills, I’m so tight I could probably poop diamonds if I ate a little coal. I consider myself an excellent money manager, mostly because I’ve never had a whole lot of it to manage.
Finally payday came. I had my doubts, but it was finally here. Like most folks, I had a bit of a “payday errands/to-do list.” Paying that particular bill was on the list, but I was doing other things when the call came again late morning, this time with that very gruff voicemail that makes you feel like a kid that doesn’t have your homework done. Dude, chill, what do you think I am a drug dealer? I get paid every two weeks and not at all for being home on leave. When I get it, you’ll get it. Luckily for both of us today, I have it! So when I got home, I called the mean lady back with the plan to be extra super overly polite, blow sugar up her butt, and pay my whole balance off, even if it were quite steep. I was pacing the whole house, careful not to step on the grout between the tile, as I always do while having phone conversations, when the lady anwered and actually spoke to me with a smile in her voice. Its amazing the different tone you get when you are trying to give away money. I joked with her a bit and asked what the damage was and abruptly quit pacing and tried to hold in hysterical laughter when her reply was “twenty-seven dollars and forty cents.”
“Did you say five hundred twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-seven dollars and forty cents.”
The whole thing was a tad like expecting a leg amputation, but getting your toenails clipped. Any stress I endured was absolutely of my own making. Note to self: just answer the phone, it doesn’t bite. It definitely isn’t worth a butthole bill going over to collections.
Kori Reeves, Registered Nerd