I sometimes stumble upon a secret of life. The thought is so profound that I wonder if I will remember it in 24 hours. Usually I forget everything about the nugget except that it was sublimely beautiful, dense with wisdom, even artful. Which leads me to say, “I should have written it down.” Document a hundred such nuggets and I’d have one of those Barnes & Nobles counter books.
In any event, here is a recent notion. It falls into the general category of life and the sub-category, doing stuff you don’t like to do and tricks to make you love doing said stuff.
At one time I was a security guard in New Orleans. It was the easiest job ever. I sat in a small office buried in the bowels of a modern sky scraper and… what did I do? Nothing. If there was a fire, I was supposed to push a button and then quickly unlock the glass front doors before the firemen showed up (because firemen love to smash glass doors…so I was told). First, the sky scraper would never catch on fire. If it did, it had automatic fire alarms. I’d unlock the doors, no problem. Anyway, I worked the night shift and I’d bring an alarm clock and sleep until 6 a.m. My shift ended at 6:30. I rose early because I had to push a desk from the outer lobby through a door. It made a loud scraping sound. It escapes me why I had to move the desk, but the point of this story revolves around this requirement, this job duty. It was the only thing I had to do during my 8 hour shift, but I started to dread it.
(Just one quick aside about this job. Richard was my co-worker. He worked another shift. In my brief encounters with Richard, he’d tell me about the Martians living among us. Then Richard got a promotion and he became my boss. One day he asked me what I had in my bag. Since he believed in Martians, I saw no need to conceal the fact that I had a pillow, bathrobe, and alarm clock in the paper bag. Richard freaked and told me I should not sleep on the job. The power of authority had gone to his head, I think)
Moving that desk became the bane of my existence.
Fast forward to today. For months I have wanted to put a number of items for sale on Craigslist. But I have always procrastinated. Studded winter tires for a hybrid bike, a travel bag for a long surfboard, swim fins, a kid’s surf helmet, and a pair of roller blades that a friend of my daughter left here—six years ago.
My other option is to put them curbside and let some drive-by scavenger claim them. I think at one point I did put a few things out, but I quickly reclaimed them. So that leaves Craigslist. Why avoid Craigslist? Because of the freaks who come out of the woodwork, because only one out of ten responses is legit, and not every legit inquiry results in a sale. I could go on.
But I am ready to do it NOW and I will do it SOON. Why the change of heart?
Holes.
I have to dig holes. In our suburban farm, I am the designated hole digger. Holes to plant peonies, to transplant rhododendrons, to bury chicken shit and more and more chicken shit. My understanding is that I have to dig between 4 to 7 holes of varying depths. I have my orders. My wife has marked the spots with bricks.
I hated to move the desk because there was nothing worse to do afterwards. On the contrary, I could look forward to going home and eating breakfast.
Usually, I find dealing with Craigslist is painful and there are many more neutral/pleasurable/fun things to do. But now Craigslist is the only thing saving me from having to dig the holes.
Understanding this dynamic offers powerful insight into the psyche and a method to accomplish a lot more. That is, always have a long list of ugly, nasty, unsavory things you have to do. By comparison, there will always be things that are less nasty, less ugly, and less unsavory. Once you have done that task, add something even less palatable to the list.
Even this diatribe is proof of this theory. Writing it has been more enjoyable than dealing with Craigslist. And now it is time for lunch.
