Do you suffer from the ‘stillgottas’?
Despite my best preventive measures, I have spent decades enduring the “stillgottas.” If you are unfamiliar with the medical terminology, it’s the whycan’t-it-be-terminal-and-give-methe-sweet-release-of-death condition characterized by perpetually gasping, “I’ve still gotta grab item A and finish project B and clean item C and research the efficacy of an Epipen after absent-mindedly ingesting mystery food D and…”
Some guys have a fabulous career releasing their inner drag queen, but all I can muster is being a third-rate Soccer Mom.
The stillgottas can erupt at any time of day, but for me they are worst between 5:00 a.m. and
7:15 a.m., as I rush to hit the road and join the rat race. (D’oh! Forgot to set the mouse trap!)
If I have awakened during the night, my mind has already raced to strategize everything that must be accomplished before I can wail, “Maybe I’ll do better tomorrow” and gallop to the SUV. I know I need to hit the ground running – unless one of the cats has produced a particularly viscous hairball, in which case I hit the linoleum skidding.
Fix that breakfast. Pack that lunch. Take those pills. Apply that deodorant. Charge that cellphone.
Pay that bill. Spritz that eyeglasses cleaner. Check that tire pressure. Find that cleanest dirty shirt. Pay Kris Kristofferson royalties for that last remark…
The stillgottas are never satisfied. No matter how down-to-the-minute I schedule my morning, there’s always a surprise, like the load of laundry that was supposed to be dry and ready for putting away, but instead includes a mangled wad of soggy sheets and towels that apparently attempted to master the Kama Sutra.
Guilt feelings make the stillgottas worse. Even with a microwave oven, indoor plumbing and squeeze-bottle condiments, I’m always bemoaning my first-world problems. (D’oh! Took five whole minutes to scan those photographs of my ancestors plowing with mules!)
True, my mornings would be more laid-back if I didn’t try being a responsible adult. For my wife’s sake, I try to: hang clean, dry kitchen towels; get the coffee maker ready; take out the garbage; defrost her windshield; perform other chores and leave a nice note.
If only I had access to an “Amazing Race” Express Pass! (“Sorry I failed to flush, ate the last doughnut and left the cats’ water bowl empty, but I have this handy-dandy Exp…wait! What do you mean you’re sending my comic book collection on a oneway cruise???”)
I also burden myself with too many hobbies and obligations. I strive to speed-read at least three newspapers a day, post memories and memes on social media and answer emails. If all the people I’ve stalled with “Things have been crazy around here” met in one room and compared notes, they would surely conclude that I live with Jack Nicholson and Nurse Ratched.
I used to get perturbed at my parents for returning from exhibiting at the Nashville Fairgrounds Flea Market and just collapsing on the sofa. But I see now that staggering into one’s “castle” is just as daunting a task as leaving it. There are always perishable groceries to put away, receipts to file in a safe place, mail to sort before it gets lost, towels and sheets to refer to a crisis pregnancy center…
Ohhh…still gotta concoct a final paragraph! Writer’s block is just another word for nothing left to lose…
• Sighhere’s your &%5E%$# money, Kris!