Crossfire Hurricane

Of all my demons, I dread procrastination the most.

Unlike pride, jealousy, or anger, whose faces I know to slam the door on, I can never make myself see the harm when procrastination comes a-knocking. I let her in and, before we know it, it’s March and those Summertime things I had to do remain undone.

Which brings me to today’s topic: why it took me a whole EIGHTEEN MONTHS of frequent, regular attendance at the gym before I ‘made time’ to buy a sports bra.

The alluring thing about procrastination is it allows you to challenge quantum physics and manipulate the laws of the universe, making and unmaking time at will.

There have been whole pockets, in the last eighteen months, where I’ve spun time into a glossy, golden expanse: afternoons re-reading Atonement (not just page 136: the whole thing); aimless Sunday driving with the windows down and Tame Impala blaring; afternoon teas, brunches, dinners, coffees, where Now was All; stolen days doing sweet FA of any significance.

When pressed on the matter of the urgent purchase of a sports bra, though, my rad procrastinatory quantum mechanics skillz emerged, and those glossy pockets of time that I’d spun out are unmade, just like that. Couldn’t possibly have gone sports bra shopping; there was a party on, a chapter to write, a job to do. Next weekend, for sure, it’ll happen.

Next weekend, and the one after the one after that happen, and keep on happening. An honest evaluation of stretch marks suggests that the old Pleasure State (with the wire poking out) does not provide adequate support in spin class.

Even still, it takes a wrinkle in the fabric of time. A scheduled lunchtime gym session thwarted by a pair of forgotten sneakers. A two-for-one lingerie deal at David Jones on my way back to the office. It was time.

I like to pretend that my iPod-priave-changeroom-danceparty-for-one (musical accompaniment: the Rolling Stone’s Jumping Jack Flash), was purely in the interests of thoroughly testing out the Bustenhalter’s bounce control.

But I’ll tell you a secret: I suspect it might have had something to do with sending procrastination on her way, and the fact that there’s no better time or place to join the Mick Jagger Strut Team than when you’ve had a win.

If said win occurs in a David Jones change room, clad in a pencil skirt and sport bra? Well, I know Mick would say it’s alright, now.

In fact, it’s a gas.