I once declared my sweeping job “good enough” after I broke a vase. I’d collected the big chunks and the easier-to-see shards sparkling in the kitchen’s overhead light and was fully aware that a more thorough person would take a damp sponge to the floor, then Swiffer, wipe, rinse, repeat, alert the national guard, and sweep again. But because I operate on a unique degree of lazy, I told my roommate to avoid the kitchen, mandated a week-long shoes-on policy, and called it a day.
Being this lazy is exhausting. Completing menial tasks feels like a dedicated effort. Sometimes I think I should get paid for breathing.
Where “lazy” typically conjures up images of Homer Simpson — lounging on the couch in his underwear, head paralyzed toward the television, remote in hand, beer perched atop his gluttonous belly, my reality is that I can’t be bothered.
Four years in the same apartment and I still don’t know how to switch from cable to Apple TV. If the screen is off, I let it be. If I’m truly desperate I text my roommate a picture of the situation, and he either writes back with instructions (that I ignore) or comes running. God bless his nimble feet: he’s helped me avoid a missed-show-emergency more than once. (Though many nights I just find myself watching the wall.)
At the office I am a different story. I spring to life, I’m efficient. Socially, I’m busy. Physically, I’m active. On Saturdays I’m up by 9 AM and when it comes to hygiene, I routinely brush my hair. However, while I’m someone who showers if I feel even slightly un-fresh, the process of getting myself into water requires inspirational talking-tos with the affected persona of a sports psychiatrist. “Be your own Nike,” I repeat. “Just do it.”
Putting myself to bed is such a production that I typically procrastinate until I fall asleep standing up.
I rarely shop online because there are too many steps; if something arrives that doesn’t fit, I’ll never return it. If I think I can make it from the car to my apartment with all the groceries in one trip — even if the law of physics says I definitely should not — I attempt it. (Fallen produce, we had a good run. I salute you.)
There are days when logging into Seamless feels as arduous as filling my own molars with sand. The thought of calling a restaurant and then possibly having to repeat myself — not to mention performing the accompanying act of locating cash or my credit card — seems so laborious that I often give up on eating altogether and nap instead.
…Which is exactly what I think I’ll go do now. Nap, that is; but I’m feeling kind of lazy.
Sounds like you’re still in cahoots with your BFF, BED.