"Hard work often pays off after time, but laziness always pays off now."

pro·cras·ti·nate >(prō-krās'tuh-nāt', pruh-) v.
To put off doing something, especially out of habitual carelessness or laziness.

An early pleasing discovery in high school Latin was that "cras" meant "tomorrow." Combined with "pro," meaning "for," one arrived at "procrastinate," a fancy word meaning to put stuff off "for tomorrow." This discovery was especially delicious, because made while putting off doing the next day's translation by thumbing idly though the vocabulary at the back of the Latin book.

My beloved uncle, when later writing a reference letter for me to his own alma mater, saw fit to mention that I had a weakness for often putting things off to the last minute. I got in anyway. The folks in Admissions, weary after reading thousands of applications from absolutely perfect students and their doting relatives, were probably curious to see what this strange lad, from an impossibly honest family, could possibly look like.

That was then, this is now. For the past five weeks I've known that I had an appellate brief due on Monday, April 2. But more urgent matters -- or more interesting matters -- always stood in the way. The weeks flew by. The cold implacable deadline hovered, shimmering on the horizon, growing ever nearer. Averting my gaze did not work. The dread final weekend was upon me.

Friday -- yesterday -- I vowed that I would devote the entire day to roughing out a first draft. Or at least researching all of the case law. Right. You bet. My phone rang incessantly, all day. People dropped by to chat. Emails, all marked "urgent" crowded into my in-box, giving off annoying "pings."

By day's end, I had completed a one page "Introduction" section. Going home, an icy wind blew metaphorically about my collar.

But this morning I was up early and at work. My desk overflowed with documents and books. My adrenaline surged. My mental gears spun well oiled and swift, emitting an efficient hum that sounded throughout the quiet, deserted offices. My steely and terrified gaze pierced the omniscient eye of my computer monitor. My fingers flew over the keys.

Oh joy. Oh relief. I'm about half way done, and I see the pathway ahead. I can finish it up tomorrow -- assuming I get past the NY Times book section and the local comics in the morning -- and spend Monday polishing up my logic and language. And dump it, just in time, still warm from the printer, into the evening mail.

Tonight, I can actually come home and relax for a couple of hours.

But I reflect. Yes, to myself, I really do. What is it about me, so unchanged from my earliest days? That ... puts ... things ... off? I know people who, two months before a deadline, actually draft summaries of their projects, and set aside the final week to touch up and polish their opera magna. These are despicable people, you understand. Monsters. I really would sneak into their office and delete the files from their hard drives. If I could ever get around to it.

So yes, I stand in front of you and declare: "My name is Don, and I am a Procrastinator." I must seek a twelve-step path to rehabilitation. But first, maybe I'll just write another tiny post for my blog.

Oh, I think I just did!