Maybe when I'm all grown up, I'll learn to get it through. . .

November 3, 2010


Hi. 

My name is Dawne. 

And I'm a procrastinator. 

[Chorus] Hi Dawne!

As far back as I can remember, I have always put off doing things. 

Studying for exams, for example, usually took place the night before, with me trying to cram in four months of course work, readings, etc., into a couple of hours. 

All while trying to write the papers I didn't start when I should have. 

This intense immersion into academic work would often lead to mini-breakdowns, where, upon something happening, breaking a finger nail, stubbing my toe, being asked to dry a few dishes, I would have a full scale breakdown.

Wailing, crying, throwing myself on the floor curled into a fetal position around my books, I'd lament my tragic fate, bellyache about the unfairness of my life, whine away my responsibility, blame my troubles on all the hours of paid work I was forced to do, object to obviously unjust treatment, denouce the suggestion that perhaps using class time to snog with my boyfriend, or play cards in the caf was not the best use of my time, oppose what was clearly criminal treatment at the hand of my evil professors, who certainly all got together when hatching their maniacal plans, otherwise known as syllabi, to ensure that all MY exams happened one right after another, and all MY papers were due on exactly the same day.

Whatever the reason, *I* was not to blame.

My mother, who I am sure had about as much sympathy for me as I do my own children when they engage in the same hystrionics, would take my books away and hide them.
She'd then look at me and say,

"If you don't know it now, you won't, and you couldn't learn anything anyway with the way you're carrying on!"



In spite of the years between then and now, I am still a procrastinator.

The only difference now?

I own it.

I am a procrastinator, yes I am.

There are some things I don't like to do, or don't want to do, that nonetheless have to be done and procrastination is not an option.

Taking the dogs out, for example.

When they start their milling around the front door, hopping from one foot to other preparing for their I-have-to-go-pee-dance, I have no choice but to stop whatever it is I'm doing and take them out.

Or, if such an opportunity is present, tell one of the kids to do it.

"Keith! I know your working on the pile of schoolwork that has taken over your life, threatening to reduce you to a quivering mass of tears, but, would you please take the dogs out because I'm lying on the couch watching Billy the Exterminator, and I don't want to get up."

I have been known to even procrastinate my own going to the bathroom.

If I am in the throes of something exciting, preparing for a favourite lecture topic, reading a really great journal article, watching an episode of All in the Family, I will feel the clarion call of the commode, but refuse to be held hostage to my body's lavatory entreaties.

Consequently, you can frequently witness my madcap dash to the bathroom; out the door, down the hall to the elevator (because I don't dare try to walk the stairs, too much unnecessary movement could lead to spontaneous sprinklings), hit the button, stand there hopping from one foot to the other, until the door slowly opens, bolt into the elevator, hit the 3rd floor button, watch the doors close with painfully agonizing indifference to my pee plight, then stand in the elevator, hoping that there are no cameras, while I clutch my knees together while snging "La, la, la" to distract my brain from releasing a flood of epic proportions until the door opens, sluggishly, and I emerge from the elevator, trying to look normal while walking the few feet to the bathroom door with my brain counting down with a robotic voice, "Deluge approaching.  Countdown begins.

10 (My hand is on the door handle). . .

9 (I'm inside the bathroom). . .

8 (Scanning for an empty stall). . .

7 (No empty stall.  Must wait.  No time to make it to the second floor). . .

6 (Stall opens.  Person comes out.  "Hi Dawne! How are you?". . . "Just fine" I answer through clenched teeth). .

5 (Gracelessly enter stall while person insists on talking to me, all the while inside my head I'm screaming I DON'T WANT TO CONVERSE! MUST PEE!) . . . .

4 (Attempt to undo pants, which of course means I can't get them undone because I have to pee so badly) . . . .

3 (Get pants undone, almost ripped them off, who cares if, for the rest of the day I flash my lemon yellow "I LOVE YOU" panties to all my students.). . .

2 (Aim for the toilet seat and hope I don't miss it because if I do I'll have to ask one of the cleaning staff for a mop and how would I explain THAT). . .

1 (Sweet, glorious relief, while the person still washing their hands, or fixing their makeup or whatever still wants to converse with me while my obvious sigh of relief provides the background music). . .

And how come, outside of being a procrastinator, I must engage in such lunatic liveliness?

Because on the fourth floor of my building, there is no bathroom.

Don't ask me why because it will only result in a rant about mysoginistic male architects who pee standing up and can therefore pee anywhere they want.



The only other thing worse than not having a bathroom on the same floor as your office is to walk into the bathroom at the same time as one of your students.

Empty stalls, you each get one, and then you sit there waiting for the other person to go first.

Because while I am open about my life and the things I do, I don't necessarily want my students overhearing me engage in my IBS encouraged, inspired, faciliated number 2's.

Anyone who has IBS knows EXACTLY what I'm talking about.

At the very least, it's noisy.

Very noisy.

Not fit to be overheard by students.

So I wait as long as I can, because you can only hold off IBS for so long, when I am forced to succumb and try to make things as quiet as possible.

And then, as soon as the student has the common sense to leave because they realize that hearing your professor fart is not something you want to remember for any length of time, I am able to open the hatch and let nature take its course.

IBS is no fun.

On top of the toilet traumas mentioned above, there have been incidents where I have had to "pass gas" and possess absolutely no ability to prevent it.

For whatever reason this often happens to me in elevators.

I'm seeing a pattern with me, bathroom issues and elevators. . .

One time, all alone in the elevator from the fourth floor to the first, I had accidentally (because I would NEVER allow something like that to happen on purpose) let out a most obnoxious "fluff."

I've often been thankful that methane, while definitely not odorless, is colorless, or I'd be perpertually surrounded by a Pig Pen inspired cloud of putridness.

The elevator door open.

And standing there is a colleague.

Who then gets into the elevator.

And while I am walking towards the outside doors, I hear a *cough, cough* and I KNOW it isn't because said colleague had a frog in his throat. 

No.

He just inhaled.

I may have actually turned purple with embarrasment. 

And to this day, I have difficulty looking this colleague in the eye without wanting to burst into an apology for something they have (hopefully) forgotten.


So where was I before I was sidetracked. . . 

Oh yes, procrastination.

The one thing I happily, willingly, cheerfully, freely, absolutely procrastinate on purpose?

Marking. 

Grading.

The constant, never-ending decision making about what something is worth.

When I was first teaching, marking was even more painful than it is now.

Prior to handing back assignments, you could find me paying homage to the porcelain gods, a reverence inspired by the inevitable handing back of assignments to students who were not going to be happy with my decision making about their paper, exam, whatever.

I do not suffer from such indignities now.

I hand things back with a do-you-really-want-to-go-there attitude.

If you don't like the grade you got, then next time you should listen and do what I ask.

I have a 48 hour rule, which means don't even contemplate the possibility of talking with me about your grade until 48 hours have passed. 

Don't give me the stink eye either. 

Right now, I have a pile of first year papers addressing how sex and gender informs people's experiences with the criminal justice system.

5 pages long.

Multiplied by 50 students.

And no matter how well I plan. . .you know, I'll do eight papers every day for the next week, I never get them done on time.

Leaving me in my office, hiding from the hoard of first year students who HAVE to know how well they did on their paper because if they don't get a good grade, or my favourite, the grade they THINK they deserve, their entire academic career, life's work, will be tossed to wolves leaving them with no option but to sell pencils on Younge Street.

And you thought I was a drama queen. . . .

Until someone comes up with something better than writing papers, or developing websites, or doing group projects, or writing exams, I'm stuck marking.

And you're stuck writing.



Title Lyric: Procrastination by Amy Winehouse