One of the words that I apply to myself most liberally is “lazy.” (As I wrote that sentence, I began fantasizing about supermarket cake spread thickly with vanilla icing—the fact that I so easily and quickly equate myself with cheap dessert covered with grainy frosting, incidentally my favourite variety, perhaps bears further analysis. The comparison furthermore makes no sense; don’t try to find any.)
A small but representative sample of how I use the “L word” in relation to myself:
Haven’t written many blog entries in recent months?
Had to bow out of marking exams and presenting at a conference because I was in the hospital?
My program has taken me longer than would be ideal since I was diagnosed with (refractory) epilepsy near the beginning of it and since, undoubtedly linked, my mental health has been up and down?
My husband HATES this particular habit of mine. Hates it. So much so that, completely out of line with his character, he’s willing to point out to family and friends when I’m engaging in it in hopes that public humiliation will stop me, a pretty good assumption given my general disposition. In this case, however, his strategy evidently hasn’t worked.
I guess I’m just too lazy to change.
Sorry, baby. I promise that Part II of this post—which will, one can only assume, involve an epiphany of some kind and not be so lazily short—is forthcoming.