Nobody has ever threatened to hire me as a personal assistant, probably because I would forget to show up for the interview.
Not that I wouldn’t be a great assistant if it only entailed talking and writing down things that amuse me – but that whole, pesky organizational thing is what would put the brakes on that train wreck.
I totally want to be organized, and I have the will and the tools, but there’s this space between wanting and being that is my personal black hole of good intentions.
I’m the kind of person who is madly in love with the promise a great daily planner holds. It’s my favorite fantasy ever.
At the first of every year I buy myself a planner that has it all – months, weeks and days; to-do lists; pockets (because nothing says you are organized like a planner pocket); and places to makes notes and goals. It’s just so … optimistic, and always makes me feel like it alone can cure me of my complete lack of skills in that area.
I vow to be organized, write down action items and plan for success with a zeal normally reserved for someone who knows what they are doing.
It’s worth mentioning, I also resolve to eat more fruits and vegetables and floss my teeth.
And every year like clockwork, the part of my brain that means well says “OK, that’s enough for this year,” on January 2.
I also love journals, and notecards and sticky notes and notebooks that fit in my purse, which leads to a problem.
I want to write in them all, and I generally do, just not at the same time. As a result, my schedule is usually recorded on pieces of paper spread between two towns, three purses and a cubby in my desk that is supposed to be used for organization, but actually holds cryptic sticky notes, acetaminophen and a whoopie cushion.
I just heard many of you cringe.
Most of my own friends live on a schedule, and one that is written legibly and in an orderly fashion on either a calendar or a planner. They always seem to know where they’re going, when they are going, why and with whom.
And they love me anyway.
I have one friend who asks twice if it’s for real when we make plans because nothing is more disappointing to her than having to deface her calendar. It’s like she actually looks at it.
I live on text message reminders and the accidental discovery of appointments written on the back of Carmex-stained receipts floating around in the bottom of my purse.
Not all of us were born to be organized. Some people, like me, were born to make organized people feel better about themselves.
You are welcome.