saturday morning

Like clockwork, the hotly anticipated Saturday morning rolls around, the smell of coffee wafting throughout the room, attempting to drown out the increasing smell of canine and dirty laundry.

I go back and forth between wanting to listen to music and wanting absolute silence aside from the clacking of my keys. After a few minutes of searching Spotify for the absolute perfect playlist, the keyboard noise wins.

Minutes wasted, more ways to procrastinate.

They say you need to do something for 10,000 hours in order to master something. If that’s the case, consider me a master procrastinator.

I swear I had an interesting topic to write about. Something edgy and witty and virally to break the internet. After all, I spent all week not writing and *gasp* working my day job just so Saturday would be an absolute word dump of all these great ideas I’ve put off for five days.

And now…nothing.

*Pulls up Spotify again*

Hello “Deep Focus” playlist. This’ll definitely help, right?

Still nothing. I consort with my chicken-scratch notes jotted down on random slips of paper covering the edge of my desk.

I don’t know what “super banana superhero” means, but I probably wrote that Monday morning before the coffee kicked in.

My dog walks in with chew toy, thrashing it side to side mercilessly like a shark with a doomed seal. Great, another distraction. Can’t he see I’m…working? Or trying to.

I swear this is all part of the process!

My phone buzzes, a notification from Fitbit. I thought I had that turned off. Apparently not.

I’m also apparently losing the current weekend challenge. I tap my wrist and only two dots illuminate. Little dots from hell.

Awful reminders that I don’t really do enough, either step-wise or with life in general; I’m not too sure.

As I switch playlists to “Soft Jazz Backdrop,” I immediately feel like I’m transported into a world of smoky piano bars and cocktail waitresses with netted stockings and low-cut outfits taking my order of gin and tonic. Guys with tweed suits and cigars hanging out of their mouths and tumblers of whiskey or Scotch within their grasp. Somehow I imagine the entire decade of the 1920’s to be a microcosm of this brief scene.

I’m finally out of coffee and accidentally open up the file containing the draft of my book. It’s like welcoming an old friend you haven’t seen in a few months but you can pick up where you left off right away.

I turn off Spotify for now and shut the bedroom door. Turn off the Internet (God bless you Freedom app). Finally, I’m ready for a little bit of hustle.

All part of the process.


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