I will be the first to admit that I am a bit of a procrastinator under the best of conditions. Throw in a few valid obstacles and I can elevate procrastination to an Olympic caliber event. This past week produced its fair share of delays, crises, and stumbling blocks. A flirting dalliance with a head cold mixed with a frantic work schedule were producing the perfect storm of last-minute lunacy on the horizon. So it was that on my one day off I found myself scrambling to get valentines in the mail to the kids in time for the big day.
I spent the morning putting the finishing touches on puzzle-cards for my granddaughters, cutting an envelope for my daughter's card, and crafting a rather lame valentine for my son. Since I planned to mail a few things to the girls with their puzzles, I placed the valentines in a mailing box, along with a roll of packing tape to seal it at the post office and my address book. I spent a full hour wandering around K-Mart in a fog, looking for Valentine's Day chocolates, books, and stuffed critters. It might have proven a whole lot easier to make up my mind had I not been dealing with a massive Nyquil hangover. But, in my fuzzy-muzzled stupor, choosing two beanie babies for two sisters became a judgment to stump Solomon.
I finally made my choices and headed for the parking lot. Retrieving the mailing box from the back seat, I threw the candy and plush toys into the carton. I ran the packing tape over the edges, thoroughly sealing all opened ends. All that remained was to address the box for the post office. Now where did I put my address book?
It dawned on me. The address book was in the bottom of the mailing box. So...I pulled the tape back off the cardboard and found my address book. Once again, I taped the mailing carton shut and used a marker to post the box to my son's home. Wait a minute...wasn't there something else I was taking to the post office? Right--my daughter's valentine! What had become of it? I retraced my movements, backtracking right to the moment when I had placed baby girl's card...in the box, with the rest of the valentines. Erghhh!!!
I gingerly pulled the packing tape off, taking care not to disturb the address I'd marked on the top flap. Sifting to the bottom of the box's contents, I unearthed the daughter's card, then resealed the edges. Done! Finished! To the post office! Now where were my car keys. Dig as I might to the bottom of my vastly cavernous hobo bag they were not to be found. I checked the back seat. I checked the door panel. I checked the back seat...again. My gaze wandered over to the dreaded box. No! It couldn't be!
This time, I rippppppped the tape off the top of the box and wadded it into a spiteful blob. I rummaged in a zombie-driven quest through the contents of that wretched carton and found...nothing! Nada! No keys! I pounded the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and heard...a familiar rattle. There, hanging from the ignition, were those cursed keys.
And that, my friends, is what happens when you don't think outside of the box.
