Last-Minute Heroics

My name is Paul, and I am a procrastinator.

I guess I have always known this about myself, and my mom knew it, too.  She was the one who nagged me endlessly whenever I had a flight to catch heading back home after a visit with her and my Dad back in good old Lewiston, NY.  

I can hear her raspy voice still. 

"Paul!  What time is your flight?  You better get going!  You are always last-minute.  Oh geez, you're gonna miss your flight back, Paaaauuullll!"

She always dragged out my name when proving a point, or if she was really pissed off about something I had done.  It is entirely possible that both scenarios applied in this case.  

This tendency of mine to wait until the last possible second to do certain things, to take care of my business, was something my mom always pointed out, in the way that moms always know their kids' behaviors.  They see them clearly and analytically, and then use that knowledge to harp on them for eternity.  

I never wanted to admit she was right, not that there wasn't an impressively damning body of evidence of my procrastination over the years.  She was only calling out what she saw.  To me, I was simply waiting for the "right time" to do what needed done:  to buy flights, to finish my homework, to write term papers in college, to study for a big exam.  Leaving for gatherings with just enough time to spare was my specialty.  I was never late, really, but I wasn't too keen on being early for events either.  I guess I believed in timing, or at least that was the excuse I used.  Ma?  Well, she believed in preparing.  

Screw the timing, she would say.  "That's just an excuse, Paaaauuullll! You're always last-minute!"

Since I turned 50 this past March, I have been meaning to sit down and write about what it feels like to be a half-century old, to share my thoughts about such a milestone birthday.  Of course, I haven't.  And why didn't I?  Depends who you ask.  I would argue the timing wasn't right, or maybe...just maybe...that my sordid history of procrastination kicked in and prevented it from happening.  

At some point, all of this is only an excuse.  Putting off things you know you want to do, especially when you appear to have plenty of time to do them or a schedule that can shift easily, is a sign of a procrastinator extraordinaire.  I am quite sure this would be Ma's answer, although she would probably not make her point by using such squeaky clean terms.  That was never her way.  

Ok Ma, you win (this time).  You were right.  There.  Had to clear that up first.  

What to say about life now, at 50?

Time is a fascinating construct, and getting older is turning out to be quite the journey.  On most days, I believe it is an honor, this whole aging thing. It also brings about a weird sense of urgency that is hard to quantify or explain with any precision.  

I am not twenty anymore, or thirty, or even forty.  I don't want to go back to those days, honestly I don't, although memory tells me they were fun times indeed.  Of course, memory also has a way of glossing over the struggles, the worries, and all the growing pains that came with the package deal of being young and fresh and stupid, creating a revisionist history that is not entirely true. Perhaps naive might be a nicer word to use here, but don't tell me that stupid doesn't apply too.  We all know it does.

I am fifty now.  There just isn't time to waste anymore.  There it is, that urgency.  I don't want it to be just an empty battle cry, a bunch of words I use to make myself feel better while I ignore the things that I really want to be doing or experiencing.  I worked my life away for many years.  I did that.   I will certainly say there is a ton of good stuff and valuable lessons that come from working hard and having discipline and achieving goals.  And I have always loved working towards a goal, don't get me wrong.  I still do.  It is a part of my personality that has driven so much for me, and is certainly still responsible for all those weekly to-do lists in the notes section of my phone.  I seriously doubt that part of me will ever change.

But what are the goals now?  Those to-do lists don't look the same as they did just a few years ago.  Many of the most important goals at age fifty, for me, they have nothing to do with achieving anything.  They are more about a way of being.  Some--ok, many--are about letting go of habits and personality traits that don't serve me any longer and probably never did.  To stop the people-pleasing, to quit pressuring myself to be the peacemaker in every situation.  To let others be who they are, and not step in to save them from themselves.  There's a false grandiosity in those behaviors that I never quite understood until now.  But I am slowly getting it, and "it" is helping create a more peaceful existence.  You can't change anyone.  Only an inflated ego wants to attempt to do something so utterly impossible.  It turns out it is never too late to accept yourself, and others, for exactly who and what they are.  Even for a procrastinator like me.  Be you, and let others be what they must.  What a concept.

I think by a certain age, one has to work at not being cynical.  Middle age seems like that period of time.  I heard some inner voices in my late 40's that suggested it was time to take a good long look at what I believed, where I was putting my attention, and to recognize the passing of a certain way of life, of so-called youth, as I knew it. I am still working with it, this radical self-acceptance of who I am now.  Warding off cynicism and bitterness seems like a full-time job at this age.  To that end, I'd like to think I am always making strides.  There is so much good life left.  One just has to see it that way for it to be a reality.

Maybe the way to beat cynicism is to look it square in the eyes and see it for what it really is: a lazy attempt at holding onto the past and denying the present.  There is a reason that scientific research identifies flexible-minded people as the happiest and most productive among us, and it's not because they stay stuck in who they were decades ago.  Conscious evolution is happening all the time.  Change is the only constant.  May as well go along for the ride!

And why not?  Life is so short.  Today marks the 4-year anniversary of my mom's passing from this earthly realm.  Hard to believe.  I watched as she unwound the last nine days of her life in that stark, cold hospital room, and what I witnessed during that time has affected me as much as anything else she ever taught me as a mother.  It was the final gift she gave me on Earth.  The death of someone you loved deeply has a unique way of teaching us how to live better, how to stop putting off doing the real work and get moving already, if only we are willing to accept such a lesson.

I told myself after she passed that one day, whenever the timing was right, I would write about those nine days.  True to form, I have not done so.  I am a procrastinator, yes, but I guess I am learning to overcome inertia.  Writing this feels like a good step in the right direction.  Last-minute Paul, doing something he has been wanting to do, and before the last minute is up.  That has to be a positive.

Wherever she is, my mom is likely still waiting for me to call her and let her know my flight landed safely back in Atlanta, or California, or wherever home was during those years I lived far away.  I always forgot to make that call, or maybe I just figured it was clear that all was well.  I mean, she knew her kid.  Did she really think I would do it?

"Pauuuullll, I told you to let us know you got home safely!  I knew you would forget to call! I knew it!"  I can hear her complaining through laughter, as if she is standing right next to me.  

What can I say, Ma?  You were right again.