I inherited the make-a-list gene from both sides of my family. Like a lot of other afflictions, listing was an adult-onset disease. At college I realized no one was managing my time outside of the few hours a week in class or in the dining hall. Dismal grades at the end of the first semester brought on the lists. While my grades improved significantly, I was not yet a slave to lists.
That came with managing a teaching job I was dedicated to and needing a life of family and community. 9 or 10 items to deal with each day was my average, and I checked them off methodically. With the emphasis on re-use and recycle, my lists shifted from bright-white paper fresh off the stack to toast-size sheets with something else on the back. Yet, number and intensity remained. Lists turned my multi-tasking into something friends and foes alike marveled at.
I’ve retired from that and rebelled. My husband has never written down a thing he intended to do, to buy, to make, or to pay, and his happiness index looks good. I began by tearing up the tiny sheets if the items were not dealt with in a few days. I developed an antidote to them, a sense of empowerment to change my mind about doing some things. Now that I’m my own boss, I set the rhythm of deadlines and time off’ for each project, and I switched to ICal for items time-sensitive.
Next thing on my list, stop making mental lists and silence the nagging voice of regret heard at the end of my afternoons.
dirtroaddocs 