I have several poems to write for Tuesday, including poems that were not done for last week because of a number of various excuses. I had books to return to the library, and I checked out four or five more that I should really read in order to continue the big exam study. I bought a tomato, a green pepper and some mushrooms and chopped them up and ate them over pasta because that whole high-blood-pressure-don’t-eat-too-much-salt thing is still sitting in the back of my brain at every meal, and when I look at the labels of easier things, they surprise me with their sodium contents, though I eat them anyway. But I digress.
Instead of reading or writing for the last hour, I took the overpriced packing tape I picked up at the grocery store, assembled some boxes, and packed four of them full of books. This is a task that my loving husband was planning to perform tomorrow while I continue to work on all the homework I might neglect to do tonight. And I don’t know why I don’t just hand it over to him and let it go. But of all the pains that moving involves, the packing of books has to be the absolute least painful. In fact, I love packing my books. I love looking through the shelves and fitting the objects so neatly in their boxes. It’s about the one part of packing that’s fun. And another part of my lack of desire to give up the task to the husband is that I happen to have it my brain (for absolutely no good reason) that only I can pack books the right way. Not that I have any elaborate system or anything, just a superiority complex when it comes to packing books. My way. It’s totally stupid, and I should just let James do the bulk of the preliminary packing while I still need to finish up this class and my studying. But there’s this insane part of me that feels the need to do more. And more and more, and everything. All at the same time.
Of course, sometimes you just get to a point in your day/week where you can’t look at a computer screen without giving yourself a headache and trying to read poetry or criticism about a poet you’ve barely read just confuses everything more than it illuminates anything. So you have to do something besides watch reruns. So you start in on a chore that’s not pressing, and not necessarily even on your to-do list at all. But at least I stopped at four boxes. And now it’s time to go back to the poems.