Here's an example: I had wanted to just spruce up some rocks I have underneath our dwarf plum tree, but for whatever reason, I randomly decided to pull out a bush on the side of our house. This particular bush serves no useful purpose unless you consider "aphid breeding ground" to be a useful purpose...which may be the case for aphids, but not for me. Anyway, 45 minutes and three yard waste containers later, the bush is reduced to a few sticks in the ground. This week I'll have to break out the pickaxe and complete my shrub murder. All well and good, but what possessed me to do it in the first place?
I could have spent the time finally finishing a book or two.
When my daughters were younger I had a valid excuse for moving around like a spinning top...and excuse called "functional parenthood". These days I have no more young children; the best it gets is a teenage stepson, and to be honest (and to his credit) he's fairly low maintenance. Yet here I am, Sunday at 10:15 pm popping Tylenol like they were M&Ms (plain...the peanut variety would make me vomit).
I have brought this to the attention of my co-conspirator in life, Ms. Rivers, which is a bit like going to Donald Trump to complain about someone else's abuse of Twitter. That's a fancy way of saying that she's just as bad as I am in this department. In fact, she may be worse. Needless to say, I don't think there is a solution in the offing for this particular challenge, at least not anytime soon. Maybe this is because I simply don't like laying around being unproductive. Maybe this is because I have warped sense of just what "unproductive" really means. Case in point: If it helps me physically and mentally, perhaps it's not all that "unproductive" after all.
This is to be continued.
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Chicken Pops Update: Some muscle soreness in the general area and a bout of two of intense itching, but this is looking like a relatively mild case. I also learned today that the chances of me getting this again are slim. Better at 53 than 73.