I’m a procrastinator in all aspects of my life. Also, I’m a complainer. Generally, I complain about something I don’t want to do, or even the things I do want to do. Then, I put off doing them. Finally, when faced with no other alternative I do “it”, and wonder why I didn’t do “it” sooner. It’s a vicious cycle.
Last weekend, I went to a place I’ve wanted to go for the last 2 years, but didn’t because I was too busy complaining about it. I was complaining about not knowing EXACTLY where it was. I was complaining about not knowing what it would be like, and what type of stuff they sold (uhhhhh. . . .fruits. . . .vegetables. . . .maybe some plants). I was complaining about not being able to go to my old favorite Farmer’s Market in Dallas B-E-C-A-U-S-E, my husband knocked me up 4 times and then decided to move my butt to this crazy city that I HATED (but now love).
When I stopped complaining, I began putting it off. It’s too hot. It’s too cold. I’m pregnant. I’m hungry.
But last weekend, as the complaining and pitiful excuses starting swirling around in my head, I began to get on my nerves. So I told myself to shut up, woke up bright and early, and drove my complaining a** to the farmer’s market.
When I got there, I was speechless (and not just because I was by myself). The scene was glorious. The sun was shining its warm yellow face on the outstretched awnings that showcased the produce. There was a constant crunching of gravel as the people busied themselves moving from stand to stand trying to find the best deals on vegetables. Murmurs and laughs could be heard throughout, and there were heavenly scents of freshly baked croissants, gyros, and Jambalaya that filled the air.
It reminded me of my childhood, and in particular, my mom. Of the sweet smells that nestled on her skin, and of her soft hands as she held my hand tight as we walked down the aisles of the farmers market. It reminded me of nibbling on strawberries and kiwis as I perused a rack of dangling earrings. And of the smell of steaming hot menudo, churros, and crispy french fries in buckets. I could hear her soft pillowy voice speaking in fragments as she haggled with the farmers. The days were always sunny; the breeze was always perfect.
Why would I deny myself this perfection? Why did I wait this long to visit this glorious place? My mother was always the first to tell me to hurry up, and stop complaining. And now I know why. Because perfection awaits around the corner, and you might just miss it, if you don’t shut up and move.