I used to be a really organized person. I was on top of my game and productive and felt that warm glow that comes with accomplishing things. But lately, I’ve been slacking.
My to-do list is out of control and I’m finding myself adding to it without ever crossing items off. I’ve taken to tackling things that I have no business doing, like gardening, just to postpone attacking the monster list.
Today, I wasted a few hours poking around on Facebook. I clicked through a few weddings of strangers, some newborns I don’t know and really weren’t all that cute and RSVP’d no to every virtual event I’ve been invited to for the past several months.
And then, because an hour wasn’t long enough to be wasting time, I started looking up people I’ve lost touch with. I’ve reunited with most everyone, so I had to dig a little deep. Real deep. Procrastination will do that to you.
What I discovered was shocking and eye-opening. It was totally regrettable and so very, very unfortunate. I may never recover.
No, it wasn’t an old boyfriend turned gay. Nobody died or underwent a sex change operation suffered some unthinkable tragedy. Nobody, that is, but me.
It was something much more depressing: I stumbled upon the page of the girl I babysat for as a teenager, and… she’s… an… adult. Like, a real adult.
I looked for the buck teeth and the baby fat and the Cinderella tattoo and the floral shirts, but they were gone. In their place were hips and boobs and pictures with boys and a whole life that doesn’t in the faintest resemble who I knew her to be 20 years ago. I thought of my kids and their sitters and how very soon they’ll all be grown up.
The good news is that I’m going to stop snooping around the internet and actually be productive. If I ever crawl out of the fetal position, that is.