Musings
"Disorganisational
Behaviour"
Aasha
Mehreen Amin
There
are two extreme types of people in this world. The first type
are the organised-cool as cucumber--individuals who have everything
chalked out in their life from their retirement plans (at
age 23) to the university their six-month-old baby will go
to when she grows up. On the other side of the spectrum are
the disorganised, completely clueless folk who have no idea
what they want to be when they 'grow up'(even at age 57),
least of all what their offspring should aim for in adulthood.
Then there
are those who are in between the two extremes, some leaning
towards the first category and some towards the second. If
I were to assess myself, I would easily fall in the second,
being a borderline 'Extremely Disorganised Person'. Borderline
or delusional? Some would snort.
Okay,
you decide. About six months ago I came back from a hectic
10-day trip abroad. The first thing I decided I would do would
be to unpack the suitcase and store it away in the cupboard.
But guess what? In spite of all good intentions, I had to
postpone this activity because of a 101 things -- work, assignments,
dinners, visits to relatives, reading the newspaper and so
on. Which means that apart from the gifts (some of which I
haven't been able to give yet) and the dirty clothes (which
thankfully I did without too much procrastination), most of
the other stuff are still in that box. A month later, I had
to go on another trip. But instead of cleaning the aforesaid
suitcase and packing it for the new trip, I decided to find
another one and start afresh. After getting hold of the new
suitcase, I dumped whatever was in it in the old suitcase
plus all the other stuff considered important -- bills, cheque
books, letters, stationary, a few books I had promised myself
I would read after I got back from the first trip but didn't
and miscellaneous items I can't really recall.
From the
antecedents, one could easily predict what would happen after
the second trip. Again the open suitcase half unpacked, again
the bag of gifts not yet given, again the cycle of guilt-procrastination-guilt.
Consequently there are now two suitcases lying in the room,
both half unpacked, both crying for freedom. So whenever I
need an emergency phone number written in one of my seven
diaries or when I periodically try to find my cheque book
(lost about four months ago) all I need to do is rummage through
these suitcases. Now, while I don't necessarily <>find
the particular items I am frantically searching for, I do
come upon a fair share of surprises. Like a sock stuffed with
some cash (which I had thought I had misplaced), a brand new
white shirt with curious designs left by a bottle of hotel
shampoo, keys to the desk drawer in my office and an old cheque
book of an account that no longer exists. These discoveries,
while evoking mixed feelings (chewing gum on a silk sari is
the less pleasant one), gives the added sense of being always
on the move. Anyone finding those suitcases would be in total
confusion as to whether I were coming or going. It creates
the illusion of a jet-setter, flying off at any time to exotic
destinations.
Another
positive side to this disorganised state-of-being is that
there is little scope and barely any time, to be bored. Whenever
I am at a loss as to what chore I must do next, I can at any
time find something that I need to look for. Top on the list
would be the TV remote control (could it be in the suitcase
or inside the pillow case?), notes from a telephone interview
written scrupulously on the front and back of an envelope
containing my cell phone bill, anti histamine tablets (rummaging
can be a sneezy affair), the mobile phone charger (now that
the cell is coughing and ready to die any second) and of course
-- the item that needs no time or place to be searched --
food. Isn't it funny that whenever you wake up at an ungodly
hour, the first thing you think of is something to munch on?
At such
a critical moment one has to think fast. Of course one cannot
venture into the dark hallway where the holy refrigerator
stands and holds all the glorious, mouth-watering delicacies.
There could be all sorts of hidden dangers -- slimy cockroaches,
marauding rats and the odd ghost or two. So the next best
thing is to rack one's brains and think what can be procured
within the walls of one's bedroom. Thanks to my DSOB (Disorganised
State of Behaviour), there are few times that I have been
disappointed. Almost always after half an hour of panicked
searching and turning the whole room upside down (driving
other occupants to psychosis), I will come across some enormously
gratifying treasure. This could be a half full bag of chips
(albeit a little soggy but cheesy enough for salivary pleasure),
the remains of a Snickers bar stuck in a travel bag or even
a half eaten sandwich (forgotten since lunchtime and still
waiting in the bag). Nothing can compare with the joy of such
a fruitful search. It is an exhilarating, adrenaline-rushing,
not to mention, stomach-filling experience.
The morning
after is of course anti-climactic. Especially when you wake
up with a somersaulting stomach in a room that looks as if
it has been robbed by maniacal bandits -- clothes spilling
from the drawers, lamps upturned (in case a bar of chocolate
had been hidden underneath) and yes, the beloved suitcases
lying open with all their contents strewn about on the floor.
It doesn't
help to realise that it is you who are to blame for such mayhem.
It doesn't help to know that you are late for a ten o' clock
appointment and one of your shoes is missing (could it be
in the darn suitcase?). At these trying moments it is only
natural to be filled with remorse and self-loathing. It is
when one fantasises that one has been transformed into the
cool-as-cucumber type person. One who wakes up to a tidy room
with everything in place including the triangular fold of
a turned down bed. One who breezes into the shower and has
her whole ensemble laid out since yesterday -- matching earrings,
hairband and all. One who glides into her clothes instead
of battling with buttons and hooks, who sedately sits at the
breakfast table and eats golden brown toast with caramel coloured
tea instead of stuffing half her breakfast in her bag for
later . . .
Of course
all this is momentary wishful thinking. All too soon one is
crudely brought to reality by the sharp pain in one's foot
when one steps on the heel of an upturned shoe (at least it
has been found) and the loud clatter of cosmetics, stationary
and even a plate or two on the floor as you get up from the
bed. Everything seems crashing in on you, literally -- when
wonder of wonders -- what do you find sticking out of a dusty
shoe box -- your long lost, still valid cheque book! It is
at this point that it may dawn on one that sometimes it takes
a pro in 'disorganisational behaviour' to work such miracles.
Copyright
(R) thedailystar.net 2004
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