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My whole life has revolved around a series of ironies.
This is no surprise in my world of “think, procrastinate, and then forget”. Then, I just jam it all in during those last few ticking away minutes. The brain that I am grateful for, and my periodically accepting that it is truly the leader that I must follow, has not changed. I undoubtedly gave in to its functions and ineffective whims. Right or wrong, I have always failed to follow the rules and structures that others find “normal.” I have since convinced myself that it is what it is and that this is OK.
On this day in early 2025, I was pretending to work on something I had tried to avoid at all costs for so long that it became a crushing weight that I had to push extremely hard to conquer. My procrastination once again had come to the critically urgent point. For no other reason than that I find the job so tedious and uninspiring.
I sat at the kitchen table, “Shackled” (Yes, that is how I still feel) and stared out a window. My thoughts started to retreat and then escape from the books. Drifting in thought, I was on the second floor of a school building. My grade nine bookkeeping class and sitting at my desk. My business teacher, Mrs. Fowler, looked over my progress and then into my eyes while frowning. She was a great teacher, but my brain screamed, “Boring.” Numbers organized into columns seemed like some kind of torture. I sat very still. Well, at least trying not to wiggle, while pushing down that familiar urge to walk around the class, while struggling with the boring task at hand. Everyone around me seemed involved. I did like numbers, and I do like challenges, but that whole sitting thing had me pacing (at least in my brain) like a caged, under-stimulated animal. Longingly, I searched the outdoors and wanted to transport myself to where my eyes were focused on trees, children running, and those wide-open spaces. No wonder I failed that class.
I never took that class over. This “Lost in Space” woman eventually figured out that bookkeeping is just another part of life and a duty when you happen to run a small business.
50 years later, I sit at that table in my kitchen and stare out the window while I jam a year’s worth of numbers (bills) into columns, as the time pressure builds. My brain has always pushed through in that pressure cooker environment.
I stare outside and know that I will get out there eventually. No more imaginary chains. I am free to be me.
Finished, and balanced to the penny.
I do believe that Mrs. Fowler would certainly be impressed by that fact.
I can still feel her eyes burning into my brain. Possibly, that was her way of getting me where I am today.
Grace Vanderzande