Procrasination Saves the Face
I stood outside at the gas station last night at about 10:30 pm, shivering in the cold—no comments about being a spoiled California dweeb necessary; I know I’m a wuss when it comes to cold, that’s why I live here in the first place—and trying to get my ATM card to work in the pump. Eventually I sighed and walked as briskly as my chilled feet would carry me toward the tiny register booth. The woman behind the counter informed me that they were in the process of updating their systems for the night and it would be five minutes before she could start the pump. She seemed to be suggesting that I go back out to the car to wait.
I had no intention of doing any such thing. While the register booth may not have been exactly toasty warm and inviting, it at least was a dozen degrees warmer than outside, so I just stood there next to the tiny rack of Hostess products: Zingers and Ho-Hos, Twinkies and Sno-Balls. I tried to find something interesting in the booth to examine while I waited, but there was very little aside from candy bars and rows of gum with increasingly frigid-sounding names. Cool Ice, Winterfresh, Frozen Chill, Arctic Blast. I couldn’t decide if it was fitting or unfortunate that all these gum manufacturers were trying to sell me breath mints using apt descriptions of the condition of my feet.
Finally the woman opened the cash register and started the pump for me. She seemed relieved to get me out of her booth so I was no longer lurking in what she obviously considered an uncomfortable silence. I felt a little bad about making her nervous, but I wasn’t about to risk frostbite on my toes for her social comfort. The gas tank filled as slowly as possible, as though the petrol from the pump were the consistency of molasses and someone was pouring them in using only gravity and trying to fight the same chill that was making my shoes increasingly uncomfortable.
At last finished with my chores, I replaced the nozzle, collected my receipt and climbed back into the car where the heater blasted hot air on my shoes. It helped a little. Once at home I retired toward bed, where Nik already lay sound asleep. I left my socks on and crawled under the covers, tucking my legs tightly around me. Eventually the rest of my body warmed up and felt contented to drift into sleep, but my feet stubbornly remained stiff and uncomfortable. I tried to force the thoughts of the unpleasant sensations from my mind, which worked for a few seconds until the empty spaces began to fill with dread for the coming changes.
I wondered how anyone ever knew if they were making a mistake. Is it something people really feel ahead of time and fail to heed, or when they say, “I knew that was a bad idea!” are they really saying, “I had no idea that was going to go badly but now that it has I will try to save face by claiming it was preordained and I merely chose to look the other way rather than admit that I didn’t see this coming”?
I want to be upbeat about my new job. In a lot of ways, I am indeed excited. Change has its own unique blend of inherent thrills, and there are some decidedly positive aspects of the new job. Still, it’s not comfortable. It’s not familiar. My mind filled with questions, all beginning with “What if…” I try to embrace the changes that come with life, with living it and doing it and being a person. How will this impact my life in this area? What will be the effect of that? I wondered if change can really be embraced with such trepidation. Is executing change enough to claim welcome for it, or does one have to raise up a chin and casually except the unknowns as insignificant in order to say that you have truly sought it?
I wondered what difference it made, whether I wanted this change completely or not. I decided that in the end, it didn’t matter. I would be an idiot if I wasn’t concerned for the well-being of my family and worried about the impact a new schedule, a new work environment, a new set of responsibilities and a new level of expectations would have on me. Only a fool looks at upheaval and thinks, “Who cares?”
As sleep began to overtake me, I noticed with an odd curiosity that for a brief second, my feet felt a bit warmer.
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Check My Gat For the Bullets it Spat
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