Con~struc~tive Dis~trac~tion - noun
1: one or more activities performed to feign productivity in order to generate a diversion from the often daunting task of creating something brilliant, which people will judge and find lacking, and wonder why a talentless hack like you even bother.
Sitting here not knowing what to write about, I notice my nails are getting a bit long for optimal typing purposes. I go into the bathroom, open a drawer, and find an emery board . I stand over the sink for awhile, paring down my nails. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I see numerous smudges on the glass. Spots of misaimed hair spray, dust sticking to said hairspray, flecks of toothpaste - yuck, how did those get there? Where is the window cleaner, I ask myself? I open the cupboard under the bathroom sink and peer inside. Not there. Must be in the kitchen, I surmise.
Passing through the bedroom, my gaze falls upon the unclothed mattress. Ugh, I need to make the bed. I am about to retrieve the sheets from the laundry room when I spot the pile of my husband's t-shirts dumped on the bed so there would be room in the dryer for the sheets. The shirts have to be folded and put away before the bed can be tackled. Grabbing the first shirt on the pile, I lay it on the matress and smooth out the wrinkles before starting to fold. Seven shirts later, I scoop the teetering stack into my arms. As I head towards the extra bedroom where my husband's dresser resides, I see out of the corner of my eye the glare of the computer screen with the cursor blinking angrily.
I pause in front of my husband's dresser. The drawers have been pulled out and left in varying degrees of openess, as though a poltergeist had swept through the room wrecking havoc.
"Geez, how much effort does it take to shove a drawer closed, anyway," I mumble, as I relieve myself of the t-shirt stack and push all the drawers shut. Turning, I pause on the threshold, my mind momentarily blank. "Window cleaner," I declare, starting down the hall to the kitchen. Upon hearing the metalic clink of the mailbox lid, I lift my head like a hunting dog and veer off course to go outside and retrieve the mail.
My nose wrinkles when I see all the bills. I glance at the clock. Almost lunch time! I really need to start writing; the bills can wait. I leave the mail in a neat pile on the dining room table. I check the time again. Hum, probably should eat something before I begin writing. Soup sounds good. And perhaps a toasted cheese sandwich.
After eating, I am back at my desk, ready to work. I look over some ideas I had written down in my journal. The subjects that seemed interesting before now sound dumb. Or boring. No-one would be interested in these dumb and boring ideas. What was I thinking? I feel a nudge against my leg. There stands my dog, Ziggy, wagging his tail. Big brown schnauzer eyes stare up at me. His toy, a squeeky plush star, rests on the floor a few feet away. Ziggy looks at the toy, then back at me, and wags his tail more vigorously. I sigh as I stand and reach for the toy.