Procrastination has become a dirty word in an economy built on productivity, product life cycles, and publication deadlines. We may admit we procrastinate, but rarely about the specifics. Procrastinating on impressive projects like a dissertation, a book, or a big project at work is o.k. Cleaning out the cat box, getting our kid to the dentist, or changing the oil in our car: Not so much.
I look down at my disheveled clothes, wipe the sweat from my face and wonder, “What just happened??” My head feels like I went twenty rounds. I struggle to focus my vision as blood pulses through my temples and slams against my mangled ear drums. In the silence of my car I can only hear a low, white noise-like buzz ringing in my ears. I barely survived that damn shopping mall. And on a Tuesday afternoon, no less.
As an intuitive person shopping malls are not a winter wonderland. The decorations do not dazzle. Shiny bobbets? Festive music? No thank you. These quickly become painful and invasive sensory bombs.
I remember when we lived in homes with soft curves and animal skins.