Deadlines, Cellulite, and Why You may Point & Laugh

I think I had three weeks to write the paper. I did it in three days. That included all the research and absolutely no sleep.

There was no surprise when Mr. Livernois walked through the classroom and handed graded papers back. I had an A- marked at the top of mine. But the "Hey, Campos...that minus wouldn't be there if you'd started it four days ago" comment he tossed out with a grin as he strolled by my desk? Yeah, that one wiped the fuzz from my brain and resulted in a telling blush that spread across my cheeks, proving to Mr. Livernois that yes, I had waited until the last minute.


My entire life has been a search for the next deadline rush. It's how I kinda graduated high school and sailed through college and scored honors with that degree of mine after perfecting the art of procrastination. Three months to write a 30 page paper on religion for a class in which said paper is the only grade? Bring it on. I nailed that bad boy in a weekend flat and got a shiny A for my efforts.

It's a rush. It's my drug. It's why I went into journalism and loved having editors breathing down my neck and why I found my sanity again with blogging and self-imposed deadlines after leaving the job to stay home and raise Buttercup. Gimme a deadline. Any deadline. I'll wait until the last damn minute and churn out gold. Maybe it's the adrenaline junkie in me, but going at the pace of Normal People only leaves me deleting everything I had to begin with and starting over at the last minute anyway, so I eventually cut out the middle man and just started rockin' the Procrastination Party like it was going out of style.

And it's worked for me. In every aspect of my life.

So why, oh why, did I expect the writing of Baby F(Ph)at to be any different? Why did I honestly think that I would give 100 percent of my efforts to the act of TRYING at the start of my journey? And why was I surprised when I woke up with a renewed devotion to Finding My Waistline and Ditching the Muffin Top yesterday? With 30 days left on my self-imposed The End for my book?

Granted, I pretty much screwed the pooch on attaining any kind of stellar losses in the home stretch. I could have, should have, didn't...and now I'm giving it all I've got because that's the way I work.

When I wake up in the morning, it's all about The Plan and The Workouts and The Countdown.

Not because it makes for entertaining reading since my life is a perfect Point and Laugh montage of hilarity, but because it's a deadline...and I'm about to see if I can keep that perfect record.