I rarely plan anything.
Take vacation, for example. Work schedules require that I set time aside, well in advance. This done, however, I’ve been known to wait, until the week before, to choose a destination, ensuring that the following week will be spent in a mad flurry of telephoning, shopping, cleaning, and packing.
Don’t ask me what I’m bringing to the party. And, telling me what to bring is a complete waste of both our times. Several days before your event, I will peruse various websites, offering tantalizing recipes, and select my favorites, just before I leave to shop for ingredients. I’m a good cook. You know you can count on me to provide something unique, in taste and presentation. Just don’t attempt to build your menu around my dishes.
If you happen to be present when I rise on a weekend morning, you would be better served to go with my flow, than to inquire as to my plans. I don’t have any, and I will resent your efforts to schedule my “free” time. Of course, there isn’t any real “free” time. But, reminding me of that, when I am so intent on the notion, is not in our best interest. If we have an event that requires schedule coordination, wait until I have left my office, and have, at least, exchanged pajamas for street clothes. My wardrobe change is a signal that I am, purportedly, ready to begin the day.
“What are you wearing?”
If two women plan to attend an event together, this question will be asked, several times, in the preceding days. Some men, too, prefer to coordinate. I won’t ask, and I am loathe to answer. I will, as the event looms, conduct a careful study of the closet I carry around inside my head. I will settle upon, and discard, a number of outfit options, before allowing a select few to remain in the recesses of my mind. I will consider jewelry, shoes, and handbags; creating a slideshow of fashion that will occupy free moments, coming to the forefront, for several nights, as I lay down to sleep. Amidst a flurry of discarded clothing, that now decorates every available surface, my decision will be made minutes before you announce the “warm up” of the car.
I don’t know “what’s for dinner”, until I’ve come home, and had time to view, at close quarters, the contents of the refrigerator, the pantry, and the freezer. If, as I move between larders, you see me halt, wearing a glazed-over expression, do not be alarmed. I am “planning”, on the fly.
“On the fly”, is a term I can sink my teeth into. I am also partial to “by the seat of my pants”, and “que sera, sera”. I like to keep my options open.
“Don’t fence me in…”
All of the above is true, and, due to a symphony of circumstance, under careful review.
The start of a new year puts one in mind for planning, even if she chooses not to follow the herd intent on making resolutions that won’t last. I rise upon the dawn of a new year, to a yawning day, and, restlessness, brought on by an inherent opportunity to turn leaves.
My new workout plan is being monitored by a good friend whose fortitude has brought about admirable results. She listens, wearing a knowing smile, as I describe the measures I have taken to ensure success, and waits until I am finished, to speak.
“Have you written up a workout plan?”
Several coworkers and I share the break-room table. Conversation has turned to the weekend ahead, and one of us bemoans a lack of time.
“And, this is why I have started scheduling weekends.” A hush falls over the room, as all eyes turn towards the speaker, a part-timer, and mother of two.
“My Weight-Watchers leader recommended it, and it really works for me! I get so much done!”
Silence holds fast, until an innocent bystander enters the room, giving us cause to expel held breaths.
A friend calls, and I lay down my dust-rag to view the Caller ID. A glance at the wall-clock tells me there is plenty of time left to polish my desk, before I push “Send”. After several minutes of catching up, and political back-and-forth, he turns the conversation to my blog, punctuating the conversation with a question.
“So, what do you write about?”
Words tumble out, one upon the other, as I struggle to answer the question, finally mumbling something about “writing what I know”. He ignores my response, going on to explain his penchant for all things technical. But, the question sits between us, settling finally, firmly upon my mind.
Later that evening, I relate the conversation to a writer-friend of mine, who poses a question of his own.
“Have you written a mission statement?”
I gulp for breath, as my eyes search my desk for a suitable resting place.
“A mission statement?”, is all I can manage.
“Yes, a mission statement!” His words take on purpose, as he prepares to drive his point home.
“But, isn’t that too much like work?” The whine in my voice is embarrassing.
“But, writing is work! You have to decide what you’re going to do, where you’re going. What do you want to do with your writing?” Passion fills his words.
And, as I search the recesses of my work-weary brain, my struggle with spontaneity begins, and I realize that, just because it has worked for me up until now, doesn’t mean it’s working now.
For several days, now, I’ve received one, consistent, message. Everything in me fights it.
And, I never back down from a challenge…..
© Copyright 2007-2009 Stacye Carroll All Rights Reserved
Are We There Yet? 
