What is Laziness?

I was going to write something else today, but in mid-stream I started thinking about this, so I’m running with this thought. Just hope it’s not sharp like scissors.

What is laziness? I’m pondering that thought because I should be outside in the blazing hot sunshine doing some yard work. I’ve bitched and moaned about winter for the last six months. You ALL know that. You’d think I’d be breaking all speed records to get outside. OK, I was just out there, and bagged up a couple of refuse bags full before the wind kicked up and I ended up with a leaf in my eye. Well, not an entire leaf, just a bit. Enough to make me go inside and get a glass of water.

While I was getting my glass of water, I noticed I was breaking out in hives, so I took a Benadryl. Now I’m waiting for it to take effect before I go out and my hives get worse. All this led me to think, am I lazy?

Well, I might be… After all, I’m in here typing and not outside raking.

Then I thought: What is laziness? Is it an inherited gene? I don’t think either of my parents were lazy. Lackadaisical, maybe, lazy – no. My sisters and brothers do not appear to be lazy. I’ve got some lazy cousins, the kind who never have a job. They think that they will hit the big time some time, and they pin their hopes on the lottery or other nonsense. I’m not sure they are lazy. They might be putting too much energy into hoping for their ship to come in, instead of maybe working on something that might have a possibility of coming to fruition.

Is laziness like a virus you get, and then you get better? It appears to me that sometimes I feel lazier than others. Sometimes I can work and work and work, and not even realize time has passed. Other days, I get to work and can’t believe I’m still there twenty minutes later. Wait a minute, make that five minutes later. When I feel that way, is it because I have the “lazy” bug? If I have the lazy bug, what cures it? Surely not antibiotics. Perhaps a never-ending round of mimosas or a tray full of cosmopolitans?

Am I lazy because I don’t want to work out? I’ve been telling myself that I don’t like working out because it’s boring. Yes, it is. It’s way boring. My dear husband can do it for an hour and a half every day. I can’t spend that much time in front of the TV. If I could work out in the out of doors, that might help. Except that I have this work to do in the yard, and I’m still sitting here. Hmm… Still, when I visit California, I could walk on the beach for hours. I also could walk back and forth across downtown San Francisco all afternoon, and it doesn’t seem to affect me, even the hills. Well, I take that back. It usually affects me later, when I wake up the next morning and find my knees throbbing.

I like playing my instrument, but I get lazy there sometimes too. Sometimes the etudes are killers, or the pieces my teacher gives me to play are difficult because they aren’t harmonious. Then I’m not into it at all. Other times, I can play for hours and not even feel the time. I can play scales all day long. I love scales. So I’m not a lazy scale player, but am I a lazy homework student?

This whole “laziness” question might explain my entire life. Was I lazy when I quit college? Or was it really because I wanted to eat and not be homeless? Sometimes I think that if I weren’t lazy, I might be a doctor by now. Maybe. Of course, it was tempting to not be homeless, so I got a job and quit school.

Was I lazy when my son decided not to do hockey any more? I was certainly doing the happy dance that I didn’t have to cart him to the ice rink twice a week. I keep telling myself that it was for the good; he was better at the piano and I doubt he’d be in the NHL now. Perhaps it was a good choice.

Finally, am I lazy because I’m not working on my book? I can appreciate people who have a plan (like Dr. B) or others that I know that are able to write late into the night, and also participate in forums all night long. I feel like a thief or like I’m having a clandestine affair with my novel. I have to sneak in thirty minutes here and an hour there and plug in a couple thousand words here and there, when I have time. I suppose if I weren’t lazy, I could just sit here all day long and get my thoughts on paper.

Well, I think I’m ready to tackle those leaves now. In the meantime, I’ll take a poll. Am I lazy, or not? And what the heck is laziness?

Dreaming of Writing

This year, I decided to sign up for Nanowrimo (National Novel Writing Month). I’ve had a couple of ideas in the hopper, so I thought I would take the time to really work on them for a change. One is a chick lit novel about a middle aged woman much like me who has floated through a suburban life when she gets dumped into a rough set of circumstances and finds she has to be strong for herself. The other is about a girl who narrowly misses becoming a statistic. Her life has been a roller coaster of ups and downs, and she struggles to stay sane despite it all.

For the last couple of nights, I’ve been dreaming of writing. I don’t know what it means. Monday night, I dreamt of a completely different book, one set in western Michigan about a hundred and fifty years ago. Names, places and situations came to me. I felt the dream lasted a couple of hours, and it played out before me like a really sappy movie from the 1940s.

I also dreamt last night of my first attempt at writing a novel. This was started about 20 years ago, and was about a woman working in a post office who is held captive by someone who has “gone postal.” (This was before going postal was the thing disgruntled postal workers did.) When I started writing this one, I had only an antique Remington manual typewriter, and it was murder to type. I have the first hundred pages somewhere, probably buried in a box in the basement.

I think these dreams are the direct result of me finishing about 3,000 words of the writing challenge. I scramble to write down my recollections and impressions, but like many dreams, the memories of them evaporate too quickly.

Back to the drawing board…