Fatuously and Ubiquitously Lazy

A throwaway comment when I was a teenager,  from an older woman I greatly admired, set the tone for my basic self image.  She had taken me to see "Cabaret" and, afterwards I sighed that I would love to be an actress and singer like Liza Minelli.  "You? - no chance!  You're far too lazy".  

Almost forty years later, I have started to question this assumption.  In fact, I have come to the conclusion that I might just as earnestly have taken on the comment from another admired older woman who exclaimed at how much weight I'd gained and was I pregnant?  I was about as much pregnant as I was lazy.   I hung on to the fat stamp, though.  "Fatness" is traditionally lumped together with laziness, isn't it?  Another myth. That one took years to sort out, too, but that's another story.

I first began to question my apparent slothfulness, in my late twenties, when challenged by my psychology lecturer during a class.  He was asking us how we saw ourselves, what we thought our weaknesses were.  While energetically and fervently lamenting my plight, I kicked the man next to me, who had all the while been unconsciously banging his foot against mine.  "Why did you just kick 'M'?".  "Because he was kicking me", I replied.  "Well then.  You're not lazy, are you? You took action."  That was a revelation and a relief, but was still not enough to convince me completely.

Only recently have I begun to see the truth in what was said.  I am not lazy.  Never was. 

It's more a matter of time-management.  During  maths lessons at primary school I expended lots of energy on finding new places to hide my books in order to avoid having to tackle the loathed subject.   No matter that my teacher saw right through me every time.  I could have saved myself a lot of stress by doing my piano theory homework in half an hour at home rather than hurriedly and in a state of panic, five minutes before my teacher arrived.

I've moved on since then. My therapist wanted me to do "homework" every week.  Keep a diary, make notes.  I laughed.  "I never bothered much with homework when I was a kid, and I'm not going to start now!".  Too lazy?  Not at all.  It took a lot of effort to stand up and be honest about myself.  Never mind that  I've been making up stories, songs and poems for as long as I can remember. Just try and stop me writing.   It would be superfluous to point out the irony in this, dear reader.  Add bolshy and stubborn to my list of failings why don't you.

I'm too busy for externally imposed assignments (and I enjoy provoking my therapist).  There are those daily tasks which I work so hard to put off until later, starting with my having to clear the kitchen sink at 6 a.m.before I can get to the tap to fill the kettle for my morning cup of tea.

Hours are spent looking for important pieces of paper which, had they been filed immediately, could also have been found tout de suite.  Adding insult to injury, there is the added expense of parking fines incurred because I couldn't be bothered to walk that little bit extra to get to my destination. The extra charges for delayed payment of mislaid bills.  All resulting in more searching and more work.  No lazy person would invest so much time and effort.

I try to use my laziness wisely.  I really do, but I'm far too taken up with deciding which project to tackle next.  B-J's socks, which I started knitting almost two years ago, that knitted square for the charity blanket, the sexy thongs for my photographer friend's website, and Mary's wrap.  This is just the tip of the iceberg.  Then there's the preparation for my English and French courses, the ubiquitous (I'm not sure what that word means, but I like it, so I'll use it) paperwork, the housework, the weeding, the phone calls which interrupt my cogitations as I try to decide whether to file this 'n that under A or Z?

As for the filing, nothing can be filed away before sections are created using coloured dividers.  Does this belong in the grammar or worksheet section?  Pink or red?  What to do?  Decisions decisions!  The file itself needs to be covered.  Not for me those dull,  grey eminences gracing the shelves. They must be adorned with pretty paper and coated with water (and tea and coffee) proof varnish.

Coloured clothes pegs have been banished from the washing line.  Plain wooden ones must suffice, otherwise hours are whiled away, colour-coordinating pegs and pegged.

Lazy - moi? Another word springs to mind, but I won't use it here.  Just call me "ubiquitous".  Not because it fits but because, as I said, I like it.  Should I file this word under "woody", or "titty"? (ref: Monty P).

Ho hum.  Back to work before I waste any more time blogging.  I should be so lucky.  Before I can even get started I have to rework the colour schemes.  Now, where did I file that quiche? ...

Lone Dancer

My father had two nicknames for me:  "Jettifer B", for the non-stop talker, and "Mouse", for the silent one.

Yesterday evening I forced myself to go alone to the annual three day summer fair. Jettifer B would have loved to have gone with a group of friends and chatted and danced the night away, but none were available that evening, so it was Mouse who ventured tentatively into the throng.  Jettifer provided a running commentary.

I have never had any difficulty establishing contact with people, but it was a challenge to go out alone and be among a crowd composed of groups of friends, couples and local inhabitants who feel at home amongst each other.  Having eschewed the joys of alcohol, I didn't have the usual crutch to soothe and uninhibit.

Jettifer chatted, non-stop:  "How Sad can you be?  No boyfriend, no friends.  Aren't you embarrassed to be out, wandering around alone?".   I remembered once seeing one of my sons, walking alone around the playground at his new school, trying bravely to look as if he didn't care, as if he was part of things.  It hurt.

A year or two ago I would have been with a crowd.  I had many friends at the school where I was teaching - teachers, parents and pupils.  Now, nearly two years after having left the school, I am still in that limbo land between the old and the new.  Many of those old friends have gradually dropped away, along with the common ground of "shop" talk.

I haven't been easy company.  Crashing from crisis to crisis. Trying to re-weave the rug which I pulled out from under my feet. I am fascinated by the emerging warp, weft and colours which are now emerging after a time of self-imposed exile.

I run into an ex-colleague with whom I always got along well.   He seems sort of pleased to see me, but doesn't quite know how to relate.  "How are you doing?", he asks.  "Fine, great!",  I smile, clutching my alcohol-free beer.  "You here with the family?".  He nods vaguely and points to a group of kids before ambling away.  Not one of them belongs to him, but turn out to be my ex-pupils who greet me warmly, and I respond in turn.  The conversation is limited, too, although our pleasure at seeing each other is genuine.

I spot my youngest son, regarding the proceedings critically.  He was always torn between embarrassment and pleasure at my easy, friendly relationship with his schoolmates.  I try to make myself semi-invisible, but am distracted by his friend saying a loud, friendly "Hello!".  I helloooo back, making a jokey comment about my son along the lines of: "Do I know him?", and move on.

Bump into family guy and his mistress, who had also been a friend.  ("AhHa!" moment re: inquiry after family). I defuse any potential awkwardness by giving her a big hug and then stand with them a while, watching the band in which her son is playing.  Their love-child is being babysat by her ex-husband.  I know too much.  People tell me things, whether I want them to or not.  No matter that I keep them to myself.  I "know" and that's enough to put the kybosh on a friendship. 

"I'd rather be knitting", comment Jettifer and Mouse simultaneously.  I ignore them, busy creating t-shirt design in my head.  More warm hugs and greetings from my eldest son's friends who play together in a band and are good-looking, talented and coooooooool!  I admire and tickle  J's new beard and begin to relax and bask in the hugs and banter.

A tap on the shoulder startles me out of my reverie as I negotiate the crowds. My second son and his girlfriend.  Buy them drinks and chat for a while.  I don't want to cramp their style, so linger not.  Later, driving back from the hospital, he tells me I would have been welcome to join them.  I had forgotten that he is not, like his younger brother, ashamed to be seen with me in public.

I stand and watch a rather good band, my feet tapping, wishing I had the guts to dance alone (which I might have done had  I not been stone cold sober).  "Get out there girl!"  hisses Jettifer.  "You're always the Life and Soul of the party".  "You don't have to be", whispers Mouse.  My handbag would have been an incumbrance and I refuse - absolutely, to succumb to the "All Around My Handbag" dance routine, beloved of so many girls and women.

One more awkward encounter with an ex-colleague/friend puts the final stamp on my evening and I start to head homewards.  My mobile jingles.  "Mum ...", (son number two) "My girlfriend's mother has collapsed and has been taken to hospital".  "I'm on my way", I reply before he can continue.  A few more hugs, greetings and "where have you been hiding?"s) from ex-pupils as I run to my car.

I admit it.  Having ascertained that girlfriend's mother was alright and in good hands, I was relieved to have something useful to do with my evening.

Next challenge:  Get back out into the arena tonight, minus handbag, and dance.  Alone, if necessary.  Well, not quite.  Jettifer and Mouse will be with me.