Yesterday I started a month of holidays.
In a fit of overzealous optimism, I mentally committed myself (ha! not that kind of committed, although probably not the worst idea) to reading and writing a LOT every single day. I went to Chapters and bought two new books (Women Talking by Miriam Toews and I’ll be Your Blue Sky by Marisa de los Santos – I’ll let you know how they are in another post) and was determined to get through at least one of them on my 7 hour flight.
I did read about half of one book and finished off the most recent chapter in my #workinprogress, but was far less productive than I thought I’d be. Instead I made best friends with my adorable seat mates who had been married 53 years and still teased each other mercilessly #relationshipgoals.
Today I woke up at 6:30am because of east-west jet lag, and instead of using the time wisely I watched an unforgivably bad Christmas movie on Netflix. I’m writing this post from the tub in a guilty effort to multi-task.
I’m not giving up on myself yet, but it seems the more time I have the more excuses I’ll make. Does anyone else feel that way?
The one glimmer of benefit I see to my sneaky procrastination is that my adorable seat mates are sure to appear in a story one of these days #inspirationiseverywhere.