Those who know me know that I am not a procrastinator. In fact I am the opposite of a procrastinator although I don’t know what the word for that would be. Oh wait, Mr. Google could probably tell me. One moment please… The answer is proactive. I don’t understand how both words can begin with pro and mean the opposite, unless ‘crastination’ means the opposite of action oriented. But I digress. I was telling you about how active I am, how I push that ball forward, how I plan and execute my plans with clock-like precision, how I ‘make it happen people’. This does not mean I think I am perfect or even capable of perfection, although I am sure I am completely annoying to many of those who have to deal with my activity-ness on a daily basis. The definition of accomplishment is setting out to do something and doing it without excuse, sidetracking or undue delay, much like I decided to have one last kick at the chorus line without achieving much fanfare.
That’s why I don’t understand the lethargy that overtakes me when I am at the cottage. Especially at this time of year when the sun sets way to the west, the water is only marginally warmer than the air, and the colour green is the exception rather than the rule, so many of the things that were going to be accomplished this summer have never been crossed off the list.
Take my kayak, for example. It was going to be liberated from its lakeside perch, power washed and power paddled around the lake. Not so much. Some other things on the not-done list:
• I have not yet finished the border on the needlepoint pillow, which has been in almost complete mode for about two years. Surely if there is time to idle away with 19th century handicrafts, it must be at the cottage. And since completing the border requires minimal attention, it does not stress the brain in any way. Somehow, though, gazing at the water with a glazed expression or deciding whether or not the sun is far enough over the yardarm for a G&T always wins out.
• The herb garden that was going to spring fully formed from that one plot of almost soil that could maybe support a perennial harvest as long as it isn’t required to supply an organic restaurant (surely it’s called dill weed for a reason) still hasn’t materialized and frost warnings make it highly unlikely.
• Those dish towels that were set out to dry on the front deck and were subsequently whisked away by a random gale force wind are still looking very forlorn on the rocks below, kept from further flight by the underbrush. I feel a little sorry for them when I happen to look their way, but not sorry enough for a rescue mission. That’s because the first rule of the cottage is to have lots of dish cloths.
• Somehow every year I think I am going to make something with canned white kidney beans and I can never find the recipe that inspired their purchase. I think the same can has come back and forth for about three years in a row. I sincerely hope canned goods don’t go bad. Or at the very least, you should sincerely hope they don’t if you are ever served my elusive white bean salad.
On the plus side, I don’t need to waste my time making a new list for next year…