Procrastination gene runs deep in the family

ANNE LOUISE

Maybe it’s me ... but I really think that procrastination must be

genetic.

There is simply no other explanation for the way I operate. I

mean, I KNOW that I should do things ahead of time. Like right this

article so that their iz tyme to proofread it. I KNOW that I will

feel much calmer if I do things on time (she said as she screamed

hysterically). But I persist in my procrastination, against all

principles of logic. So it must be out of my control; it must be some

sort of genetic mandate.

I have evidence that there could be a chromosomal cause for this

tardiness; it runs in my family. My mother has many wonderful

qualities, but punctuality is not one of them. It is not unusual to

have several birthday packages arrive in one large box -- one that

covers the birthdays from March through August. And arrives in

October.

My mother passed this procrastination gene on, and not just to me.

My sister once sent us “winter gifts” in February. They were nicely

packaged in snowman wrapping paper, with a note that said that these

most certainly were NOT late Christmas gifts, but rather they were

timely “winter gifts.” The winter-gifting season, she explained, is

rather loosely held to be somewhere between January and March.

As you can see, the family procrastination gene is apparently

linked to a rationalization gene. This rationalization gene comes in

handy. If we weren’t able to justify the tardiness somehow, there

would be a lot of guilt involved in being perpetually unpunctual.

Much as I hate to admit this, I can top the winter gifts. One year

when the kids were small, I bought Christmas cards featuring a

beautiful dove and a simple message wishing peace for the holidays. I

signed all our names, and dated each one. I took photos of the kids

in their Christmas finery, and had copies made to send in each

envelope. Then I hand-wrote an individual note in every last one of

the 60 or so cards. Well, understandably, by this time, I was

exhausted. Too exhausted to actually address the envelopes and mail

them. So I never did.

Well, not exactly never. They sat on my desk through the holidays

and into January. Every time I passed the desk, they screamed

“Loser!” at me. Then I had a brainstorm. Well, it was more of a

cerebral squall, but it was a great idea. I checked the message

inside the cards. “Wishing you peace for the holidays,” it said. It

didn’t say WHICH holiday. So I drew little hearts around the dove,

and decided to send them off for Valentine’s Day.

It could be funny. People would understand. I mean, I had small

children. I worked. I was busy. But I STILL didn’t send them. I was

then obliged to add some shamrocks.

Still no trip to the post office. It wasn’t until the dove laid

eggs that I finally got those things mailed. Eggs, as in Easter eggs.

I enclosed the Christmas photos -- what else was I going to do with

65 of them? And I wrote a really awful poem that attempted to both

explain and excuse the lateness.

For some reason, my version of the rationalization gene carries

its own bizarre mutation. This mutation drives me to write bad

poetry, in the misguided belief that poorly rhymed phrases will

absolve me better than apologetic prose.

I am facing the need for a poem right now. It’s not a requirement

that it be a bad poem, but if I am doing the writing; the odds are

heavy that it will be. The situation is this: I have a good friend

who has a birthday in mid-October. In fact, every year, it’s in

mid-October. And yet, every year, I know it’s coming and then do

nothing about it. So I figure I have two options right about now. I

can cease all communication for a year. Then, I try to get it right

for once, and hope that when my card actually arrives on time in 2005

-- BIG leap of faith on my part -- she will assume there was some

sort of time warp. A time warp that only made it SEEM as though more

than an entire year had passed since she last heard from me. Or, I

can write another poem.

I’m guessing I’ll go with the poem. I’ve tried the other method,

and I’ve lost track of a lot of people that way. It would, of course,

be easier to just stop the procrastination, but who am I to work

against the dictates of DNA?

* ANNE LOUISE lives in La Crescenta with her husband, five

children, a dog, a cat, and some fish. Reach her at

annelouise@annelouise.net.