I know very well what a bad student is, it's a matter of the pot calling the kettle black.
I praise myself lucky knowing I never have to teach myself.
Thinking about it, there are a lot of things I am not, which I should have been. I should have been an active exerciser, I should have been a woman on diet (the number -25 kilos is screaming in the back of my head now), I should have been a good... okey, a better.. mom, I should have been a better educationist, I should have been one of these women who take great pride and joy in keeping the house clean and tidy, I should have been a better friend.
Instead I limit myself to walk the dog, just far enough to let him pee... and do his other business, I enjoy crisps (and yes, the dip too), wine and scrumptious dinners.
I am a madcap mother, who let my children delay doing their homework so we can finish our game of Settlers.
In the morning I come in for landing at work like an albatross, my mind scanning through the contents on my laptop in search for something academically I can use for the upcoming 8 lessons of vocational English.
The laundry piles up and is washed in bursts, usually when my son comes in, dripping wet from the shower wondering where all his boxers have disappeared? Usually they are to be found in the laundry basket, the dirty still-not-been-attended-to pile of clothes and towels. The kids use an impressive number of towels; some times I suspect them of just rinse the towels under the tap, just to make them appear used and dirty.
I totally trust my bad conscience, so to be reminded of my evasion of folding the clean laundry and put it away, I bank the pile on the easy chair in the living room. I am bound to be constantly reminded of its presence there, every time I enter the room. And it stares accusatory at me while I'm there. It's quite impressive how something just present can dominate the environment. It's very uncomfortable. I spend a lot of time in my home office.
For some reason the easy chairs, which looked huge and very comfortable at the furniture department, shrink. So much so I need to occupy two of them, before I run the gauntlet, face up to the agony and deal with it.
My biggest drive, however, is not to have a perfectly staged house, it is the fear that my aunts will come by. I am not a teenager; I am a 45-year old woman with a profound fear of my mother's apoplectic fits. And I would experience one, on the phone, shortly after their visit.
My friends are giving up on me, there is no point in calling me on my phone. I don't like talking on the phone and avoid it if possible. I actually conveniently set it on mute and put it anywhere unlikely, just to have the excuse I didn't realize they called.
I have heard the accusatory complaints often enough. I know I should have taken it in, at some point, and keep it close always, but I get so stressed out of being available at all times. It's strange and contrary to nature. At least it is to me. But then again I am a quirky person, unlike a lot. Most can't put their phone away at all.
More often than before I end up drinking tea at the kitchen table with friends who ring the doorbell late at night. They have to show up to get to talk to me, because I don't answer the phone. I don't pick up, answer to messages or check my social media accounts as often as they wish... to be honest I go through email and messages around breakfast time... in Australia.
So we sit there, late at night, drinking tea and having the best of friendly time, while I feel the aggressive vibe from the overloaded sink pinch me in my neck.
I comfort myself knowing the dishes will be done, sometime soon.
If I were a dieter, I would probably have been one of those with 20 diet courses, in bookform, meticulously sorted by year and month on the bottom shelves in my bookcase. Courses I had every intention to complete.
I would feel so guilty having dinner I would swallow it down with a full nutrition diet shake, just to write in the foodlog I actually did drink it.
I get things done, in a while. It's just that I am comfortable while procastinating.
After many years of "on time" (which is a lovely expression meaning almost too late), instead of "in good time", I should have learned by now how unpractical it is to always have a deadline of some sort in the near future...
I guess it's hard, not impossible though, to teach an old dog new tricks, but is it getting too late for me to learn?
I am a madcap mother, who let my children delay doing their homework so we can finish our game of Settlers.
In the morning I come in for landing at work like an albatross, my mind scanning through the contents on my laptop in search for something academically I can use for the upcoming 8 lessons of vocational English.
The laundry piles up and is washed in bursts, usually when my son comes in, dripping wet from the shower wondering where all his boxers have disappeared? Usually they are to be found in the laundry basket, the dirty still-not-been-attended-to pile of clothes and towels. The kids use an impressive number of towels; some times I suspect them of just rinse the towels under the tap, just to make them appear used and dirty.I totally trust my bad conscience, so to be reminded of my evasion of folding the clean laundry and put it away, I bank the pile on the easy chair in the living room. I am bound to be constantly reminded of its presence there, every time I enter the room. And it stares accusatory at me while I'm there. It's quite impressive how something just present can dominate the environment. It's very uncomfortable. I spend a lot of time in my home office.
For some reason the easy chairs, which looked huge and very comfortable at the furniture department, shrink. So much so I need to occupy two of them, before I run the gauntlet, face up to the agony and deal with it.
My biggest drive, however, is not to have a perfectly staged house, it is the fear that my aunts will come by. I am not a teenager; I am a 45-year old woman with a profound fear of my mother's apoplectic fits. And I would experience one, on the phone, shortly after their visit.
My friends are giving up on me, there is no point in calling me on my phone. I don't like talking on the phone and avoid it if possible. I actually conveniently set it on mute and put it anywhere unlikely, just to have the excuse I didn't realize they called.
I have heard the accusatory complaints often enough. I know I should have taken it in, at some point, and keep it close always, but I get so stressed out of being available at all times. It's strange and contrary to nature. At least it is to me. But then again I am a quirky person, unlike a lot. Most can't put their phone away at all.
More often than before I end up drinking tea at the kitchen table with friends who ring the doorbell late at night. They have to show up to get to talk to me, because I don't answer the phone. I don't pick up, answer to messages or check my social media accounts as often as they wish... to be honest I go through email and messages around breakfast time... in Australia.
So we sit there, late at night, drinking tea and having the best of friendly time, while I feel the aggressive vibe from the overloaded sink pinch me in my neck.
I comfort myself knowing the dishes will be done, sometime soon.
If I were a dieter, I would probably have been one of those with 20 diet courses, in bookform, meticulously sorted by year and month on the bottom shelves in my bookcase. Courses I had every intention to complete.
I would feel so guilty having dinner I would swallow it down with a full nutrition diet shake, just to write in the foodlog I actually did drink it.
I get things done, in a while. It's just that I am comfortable while procastinating.After many years of "on time" (which is a lovely expression meaning almost too late), instead of "in good time", I should have learned by now how unpractical it is to always have a deadline of some sort in the near future...
I guess it's hard, not impossible though, to teach an old dog new tricks, but is it getting too late for me to learn?
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