I just can't seem to get on top of my work. I feel like I'm in shitty time-management quicksand, and every time I hoist myself up a couple of inches, I slip three more feet.
Today I resolved to shackle myself to a chair at the library and disappear behind my laptop and my textbooks until I got out of the woods. I decided to go via moped before it gets too cold to ride, but that wasn't in the cards. Laden with my enormous chain across my chest like a ten-pound Miss America sash and my bulging backpack, I couldn't get the thing to start. In an unfortunate metaphor for how ineffectual I've felt lately, I was just pedaling and pedaling trying to hear the growl of the engine turning over, but nothing. My eyes stung with tears. It was a huge blow to my motivation. I took off my helmet, wiped my sweaty forehead with my icicle fingers and sat down in the driveway. I felt eight years old.
People who ride vintage mopeds can hopefully back me up here - a bad moped moment can sour an entire day beyond salvage.
No comments:
Post a Comment