We’re Just Making Inane Choices

Photo by Viktor Talashuk on Unsplash 

I put off doing something and now I’m questioning who I am as a human. I may or may not have decided to not do my laundry for ages. Long enough that you should be concerned.

(I don’t want AI to take over my creative pursuits, I want it to do my laundry and clean the toilet while it’s at it.)

The laundry situation was getting out of hand. I needed an intervention.

Sometimes I may or may not wait until I have one pair of clean underwear left.

Why do I do this? That’s a very personal question. I feel a little violated. My name is Nina Kaur, and I am the definition of a procrastinator. To a level that may be considered unlawful.

Come on, stop acting like I’m breaking the laws of household cleanliness.

I find folding and hanging clothes to be one of the most tedious tasks on the planet. I don’t like mundane chores. This has been established.

I should probably listen to a podcast or something while I’m doing it, but there are people who think you should just… do the thing and be there while you’re doing the thing. A very long-winded way of saying: be present.

Like feel the water. The suds. The experience.

That’s great for them.

I don’t think I’m going to find enlightenment doing my laundry.
And if I do, what is enlightenment exactly?
Because if it involves laundry, I have questions.

Also, what about thinking?
What if I ignore my present experience and think about something more interesting?

Picture it: you’re in jail. I don’t know why. Stop asking questions.

You’re on the top bunk and there’s a fly on the wall.

Are you really going to sit there and be present with the fly, or are you going to mentally go to a beach, with a mai tai, sipping your way to enlightenment?

Be honest.

Anyway.

Today, due to unforeseen circumstances—severe procrastination disorder—I was on my last pair of clean pants.

These pants are called jeggings. They are leggings that look like jeans, which already feels like a trick.

The waist is super stretchy on these tricky pants. I love that for them. Not as much for me.

At some point since the last time I wore them, they had stretched.
They did not communicate that to me.

So I put them on, I’m in a rush, trying to get my first cup of coffee at Starbucks. Otherwise I need a nap an hour after I wake up.

Everything seems fine.

Then I start walking down the stairs.

And they start falling down.

At first I’m like okay, no big deal, I can just pull them up.

But then I realize I actually have to hold them up.

I can only hold them up with one hand because my laptop is in the other, so now we’re just making inane choices.

And it just so happens that the one pair of underwear I have left is… not helping either. As my friend would say, it was a sitch and a scene.

And now I’m walking to my car with one hand holding my pants up, just hoping no one makes eye contact with me while I figure out how my life got here.

Mostly I’m worried about my backdoor neighbor who raises chickens. I feel that describes him in totality. He has a thing for me, I suspect. He stopped by yesterday and asked if I wanted to go out on his boat. I don’t know how to say no to people. So I said yes. I don’t know how I got into this people-pleasing behaviour.

Anyway, I’m trying to unlock my car while holding my pants up and carrying my laptop, and the pants are hanging on by one finger at this point.

Luckily, nothing is fully exposed.

Not ideal for the chicken neighbor.

I sit in the car,
and the pants have officially fallen,
and I’m partially sitting on my ass.

I drive to Starbucks, trying to pretend I’m human.

Now the trick is getting out of the car without mooning America. I try my hardest to pull the pants up as I’m sitting in the car. No such luck.

I quickly, like I’m a fugitive in a movie, jump out of my car while trying to hold the pants up. I did it. No one seems alarmed. I bend down to get my laptop from the back seat and try really hard to keep the pants near the waistline.

I start walking, and again the pants are slipping. I’m holding on though. If I can just get that cup and sit down without exposing too much skin, I am golden.

I go to the counter and do a little jump to get the pants up as high as they will go. The barista has not noticed my situation. I order my vanilla sweet cream cold brew and a blueberry muffin.

I try to walk casually to a table so I can set down my bag. It’s semi-busy for 9 a.m. I find a seat and manage to sit without looking like a heathen.

I did it. I made it. We have to celebrate the small wins.

I sat there, drinking my coffee, holding my pants together,
and thinking about how I agreed to go on a boat
with a man who raises chickens.

Which feels like a separate issue.

But not unrelated.

nina

A couple of friends and I started a podcast called 2 Curries and a Ranch. Listen here: https://2curriesandaranch.riverside.com/ or wherever you get your podcasts.

Imagine two loud, dramatic, hilarious Indian women explaining to a white man what it's like to grow up and live in America. Join us for the laughter, deep thoughts, and witty banter about life, love and culture. We tell it like it is, with honest, bold and funny stories, discussions and arguments. We explore boundaries and challenge norms. Join us for a good talk.

We have a new episode coming out soon! Shit, Shower, Shave, In That Order: Listen to us unscripted, shooting the shit about culture, life, and Harry Potter! The topic is us telling it like it is.