The Tao of Procrastination.

Sleep late I did don't you know. My M.O. There is always time to waste, seconds if need be when I am reading something online, or resubscribing to a newsgroup in which I have no interest; when time is collapsing on itself and my life is literally careening toward a final exam for which I am not prepared. Food to eat, so well and so much I consume. I am petite gourmand, they called me in France. Who me? Oui, c'est vous. I'm not sure how petite fits into the equation: seems like an oxymoron. Of course, nothing can be accomplished with my room in this state. Organize and clean. Laundry, oh ubiquitous pile of laundry, I shall conquer you atthisveryminute! The desk so clean and pretty when there's not haphazard piles of stuff strewn over you. Now I can study. Oh yes, I'm actually getting out this bent and haggard book of numbers. It groans when it opens now, against the stiffness of its own mathematical essence. Robust to violations, my ass. You know though, this would be a lot more effective if I had stickies with which to mark the tables in back, the important pages in text and in my notes. Yeah. Almost time for work. Not enough time now anyway and I can study there since I'll just be babysitting the office while the evaluators are interviewing clients. But work was a logistical nightmare: translator needed for a Vietnamese client whose psych testing took nearly twice as long as it should have. Too many psychologists making demands on me because their level of empathy is positively correlated with the magnitude of hourly fee. (Not true of all of them but two thirds of the crew I dealt with on this night fit that criterion.) And oh, look, a dinner party ensues upon my arrival home. Good food... wine. Mmm, wine on an empty stomach. Oh divine travelers weave your tale to me across a spread of culinary delights and woo me with a life of adventure. I am content to watch your eyes sparkle with experience and the vitality one can only have after taking two years to bike and hike the length of South America. Honeymoon. What would it be like to have those experiences quilting my soul, the memories of all those faces so different from mine and from each other; their voices resonating in tongues incomprehensible. The language of need is universal, and so you spoke. Enraptured. Captivated. You are oh so infinitely attractive and I won't leave this for anything, certainly not statistics. Gone but the sentences curl in thin ribbons around the edges of the room, under our noses, brushed again and again to our ears. Sweet kisses of life. Into the wee hours the woman cleaning, and I in the chair, chat. And chat. I see you there, you evil clock; I see you chastising me with every shift in your light display, but it's so late now no difference can be made. My own clock strikes high, the hour of blood. I sleep in darkness, wake in darkness. Shower early then out to café Zoka. Their reputation is sliding fast, but I still like their chairs, their food. I must now learn. Except a classmate has just walked through the door. Random chance. I couldn't miss her blondest of blonde hair. She is paying with credit when I approach to invite her to sit next to me. For an hour we talk about Not Statistics. And then I am alone with my book, my notes, my stickies, and my notecards. Hour of reckoning. Lucidity, pure and simple. I can be so methodical and I learn in it. Equations are easy, the concepts more difficult. But this morning, with this cup of tea and this cream cheese brownie and my mind at ease from the cleansing, I finally get it.