This self-delusion I maintain about putting things off always butts up against the reality that there really isn't enough time to get everything done at once. It starts about Thursday, usually. I tell myself that I don't have to do it today, because I'll get to it Friday. Then Friday I promise myself I'm going to work all weekend.
We all know what kind of empty promise that is. But I assure myself that the things I don't do on the weekend can all be done Monday. What I forget is that Monday always brings its own complications, its own set of duties that can't be put off, no matter how creative my thinking gets. The things that have to be done on Mondays have to be done, regardless of how stale the pending work is getting.
Plus, no matter what I do, Monday always shows up on time.
All of this is just a long way of saying that I didn't do anything today. I slept (and watch movies) all day and all night yesterday, and I never even got around to opening the mail. Now yesterday's and today's mail is sitting in an ever-growing pile on my desk. It's a good thing the post office doesn't deliver on Sundays. At least the pile can't grow any higher — until Monday.
I'd almost talked myself out of even working in the yard today. It was sunny, but a little breezy. I didn't want to subject my allergies to anything that might irritate them, so I'd pretty much determined that I'd just stay indoors. Then late in the afternoon I was feeling a little restless, and the wind had died down some, so I went out and pulled up weeds for half an hour. It made me feel a little better about how I spent the rest of the day.
Oh, and I did refill the hummingbird feeder as well. That was as much for me as for the birds, though. I'd hate to lose my only totally reliable visitors. They're around in such numbers that I can almost always count on a show any time I choose to look out the window.