I am a sucker for planners. They hold out the promise that if only I were truly organized, my life would somehow magically become seamless, tidy, creative, and wonderful. The full trash can on my desk (so the dog won’t further shred the paper scraps in it) will disappear! The untidy pile of receipts will file themselves. The poem I’ve been procrastinating about revising will transform into something intriguing and brilliant in a literary way, rather than something intriguing and compostable in a science project way.
So far, the planner’s mystique is strong. I have written almost nothing in it yet. The inevitable crossings-out have yet to occur. But I know it is there, waiting, evaluating me even now, so I have to sit up straight and type properly, fingers curved over the keyboard as if it were a piano.
The thing is, though, that the old planner is there, too. It had the same shiny hope thing in its day, too. Not quite as much, since I bought the cover that was on sale rather than the one I liked. I needed to look more professional at the time, which tends to set my teeth on edge. And now, several years later, I have discovered that daily calendar pages are useless to me. I think in weeks and months.
After I do the real work of my day today (finishing a draft of a white paper for Brent, organizing some lists, sending some emails), I will be able to spend some time integrating the lessons of the sad old planner into the shiny new one. And I’ll get to cross the day’s work off my list.