I am right now procrastinating about doing my homework for yoga teacher training. I mean, it’s anatomy. I am an artist. I am offended by details of the physical world. Though it is neither yogic or spiritual, I am likely to keep not paying attention.
I would like to state, for the record, that I failed biology in high school. I had it 7th period, and I got stoned every day before school sophomore year, so in 7th period I usually fell asleep. The teacher let me, because consider the alternative. A 16 year old me, awake and looking for trouble, defying the nearest authority figure whenever possible. Believe me, she let me sleep.
Further pissing her off, I taught myself the year’s work in the last week of school and aced the final exam so she couldn’t ruin my summer by sending me to summer school.
By the way, I do remember that fallopian tubes exist. I do remember the diagram of a woman’s reproductive organs. Do I need to explain why that remains? (Consider the word lesbian. Or at least bi-sexual. I am always interested in what is immediately relevant to me.) I also remember dissecting a sheep’s eye. Or starting to dissect it, and trying to find an empty desk to go back to sleep because it was pretty gross.
Anyhow, I am procrastinating about learning anatomy. Though I have to admit, when I have overcome my procrastination (as in, studying with the lovely Elizabeth after class yesterday), I have found myself interested in the parts of my body that hurt (now that I am no longer 16) and trying to figure out what hurts when, all of which is in direct contradiction to the mind/body system of John Sarno. I consider myself in a relapse from Sarno’s mind/body program and I am currently procrastinating about going back to writing about my unconscious rage.
Instead, I am watching a lot of television.
And doing the Grief Recovery Workbook, though I am also procrastinating, today, about looking at that some more.
It’s a nice day. I sat outside in the sun for a while.
I think I probably have enough homework done to get by.
I also think that as a teenager, from 14-17, my innate, German mother-derived perfectionism and type A sense of responsibility had gone very dormant.
Grief makes perfectionism and type A responsibility look entirely ridiculous. I mean, who has time for that?
Sitting in the sun it is.
PS–I no longer smoke pot. Or drink alcohol. Or coffee. I don’t eat sugar or gluten or chocolate. In fact, I don’t do so many things that procrastinating may be all I have left. And causing trouble. That, I think, I will never give up.