I read this article today in the New Yorker about procrastination. Which made me guilty but realized that some of the stuff in the article I had already been doing. My house is a lazy house. 4 singles, no responsible parents etc. Me and my other housemate are the responsible guys! Would ya believe that? No. Me I help vacuum, wash the laundry, hang the laundry (we are 4 chefs so a shitload of uniforms), put out the trash, pay the rent, pay the bills… That’s me haha! I didn’t know how to do any of this stuff like 2 years ago! Well, I mean I know how to but I couldn’t bring myself to if you get my meaning. Hell, next week, we’ve scheduled a weed pulling exercise.

With regards to physical exercise, it’s something I’ve put off for AGES. Mostly because my weight seems to stay like ok for the most part, ranging from 68 when I was skinn-ier on my last trip home to 75 or so, where it has stayed after my SG trip. I blame bakkwa and durians. Regardless, I got clever fast with my clothes, understanding that shirts are my thing. In fact, I reckon I look alright swagging through Syd compared to the average Joe Schmoe. So I never really felt the need to exercise.

The article I linked talks briefly about how procrastinators use external influences to force themselves to get things done. Like Victor Hugo would get his butler to hide his clothes and he’d write naked so he couldn’t leave unless his butler was there. Clearly, steez was as important to Mr. Hugo as was writing. I just did the same thing, buying a new pair of Nike Free Run+ and basically forcing myself to use it. The thing with me is if I buy a pair of running shoes but wear them for style, it’s sorta hypocritical so that guilt factor comes in and I’d have no choice to run. Otherwise I’d just tell myself I’d be a poseur with a squeaky clean pair of running shoes that I never run in. Also, I’m totally drawn towards a more sporty, athletic, modern fabric approach towards clothing in recent times and a pair of techy trainers makes the ticket. I’m not drawing any parallels to myself with Victor Hugo btw.

So yea. 5 clicks, steezed out all black Nike gear (thank god that $15 soccer jersey tee doesn’t overshow manboob) from Crows Nest to McMahon’s Point and back. I had no clue where I was going, I just went out the house, stretched and ran a round before deciding the iPod Classic was too heavy and the glasses were in the way. Dropped them back off and went out again, with just my keys. I went towards North Sydney but didn’t go toward the harbour bridge. I saw a sign saying McMahon’s Point, ran past it and saw people enjoying brekkie at cafes and finally this awesome scene of Sydney herself. It was as if she was flirting with me, showing off. You could see the bridge in all it’s splendour, Opera House just nestled below, its contrast of sharp and curved as iconic as ever. She looked really good. I just felt like at that instant I could take it all and own her. Maybe. Then I turned around and ran back, which was a bitch because half the way was upslope and the road leading to McMahon’s Point itself is goddamn steep. I feel good.

Advertisements