With Focus on Frittering

I was well into my forties, showing my father the nice job I’d done painting the kitchen cabinets in my condo when he opened one of the doors, saw that the insides had not been painted, and said “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to finish a project.”

That was the day I became acutely aware of the myriad unfinished projects in my life. It is likely my father was including three previous marriages when he made his declaration about my unfinished projects, though I have no regrets about having abandoned those “projects.”

In fact, I have little regret about a good many of the projects I have abandoned. Hooking rugs and painting ceramics surely were not my thing, nor was medical transcription once I mastered it. I don’t care about the unfinished afghan or the half-done artwork commissioned by my sister.

Perhaps eventually the new owner of my condo finished painting the insides of the kitchen cabinets. Good for her. There are hundreds of things I began, never finished, and no longer care about.

There are, though, unfinished projects that continue to haunt me. They are not so much unfinished projects as they are highly successful examples of the sort of procrastination I have developed in recent years. These projects remain waiting, and I can no longer tell them I haven’t got the time. I care deeply about them. I carry them into my garden, into coffee shops, take them with me on bicycle rides and long walks, and they prove themselves excellent distractions when reading or watching movies. Even my attempt to stay abreast of current events is sabotaged by mental energy sacrificed to frittering.

While frittering, I heed a voice inside my head assuring me it really makes no difference how I spend my time. Why not just take your book, your coffee and cheesecake to the front steps and enjoy the sunshine for a bit? says the voice.

Last night I was part of a focus group for the care and treatment of breast cancer. Every woman in the room talked about how much she’s slowed down -- how she can’t seem to focus long enough to get anything done. Every woman who attended now also carries at least ten extra pounds – despite the fact that breasts have been removed and we should actually weigh less. Frittering. We are all frittering and feeling guilty. We are all blaming cancer treatment, but Dad would say I’ve finally got a good excuse. I hear his voice. I see him smirking.