Confession

I have to out myself. I think I may be THE laziest person who has ever lived. Not in an all-encompassing way, but in a very specialized "things that involve reaching" kind of way.

Allow me to explain: in the last 24 hours, I have managed to find the energy to do a spin class, work out for 45 minutes on an elliptical, fertilize my lawn, call a plumber, do 7 loads of laundry (in my stupid "never say die" Kenmore washing machine), and keep all 3 kids alive for another day in paradise. What I did NOT manage to do, however, was wipe up a sticky spot on my kitchen floor.

"Oh Nicole" you say, "neglecting a spilled apple juice spot doesn't make you lazy!" And you would be right, except that you are SO wrong.

Today as I was purposely walking around that sticky spot on the kitchen floor that I noticed, oh, probably 2 days ago, the magnitude of my selective laziness struck me. Heaven forbid I should wet a paper towel and wipe the dumb thing up -- no no no -- that would require bending down and working for all of 7 seconds. Nope, I'd much rather memorize it's exact location (4 inches southwest of the front right corner of the trash can) and walk around the spot 27 times a day for 2 stinking days to avoid a simple task. I even walked back to my room and into my closet to get a pair of flip-flops so I wouldn't have to worry about forgetting my "AJSC's" (apple juice spill coordinates) and getting my foot sticky. Do you know how much mental energy that requires?! Way more than I have to spare after producing 3 children (they suck out your brain cells -- all you moms know what I'm talking about -- but that's another post)

And this is not some isolated incident -- today's (or Monday's, really) dried apple juice spot is just the latest example of my overwhelming (but selective!) laziness. There was a piece of black lint from one of Boone's dress socks on the carpet right outside my bedroom door for about 5 days last week. I'm not kidding. The simple fact that I remember a piece of black lint is evidence that I left it there WAY too long. I looked at this piece of fuzz a gazillion times a day and thought, "there's Boone's sock lint... again...still...I hate that piece of fuzz...I'm so sick of seeing it there by my door...am I the only one who sees the sock fuzz?...Branik eats everything off the floor, but I doubt he's even tasted that yet...ACK! Is that a spider? Oh phew, it's just Boone's sock lint again..." Still, I couldn't be bothered to pick it up.

I find myself adding totally ridiculous things like that to the to-do list in my head (titled : "Things that shouldn't need to-do lists to get done"), along with more grueling tasks like showering and making Keaton take off his pull-up from overnight sometime before Boone comes home.

This isn't just an issue for me within the four walls of my house, either. For years, Boone has laughed at me sitting in the front seat of the car with my purse, diaper bag, groceries, pot-luck dinner items, Case Logic, etc. squarely in my lap and occupying so much space that I can't move. "Why don't you put that junk on the floor behind you so you have room?", he would ask. My reply? "Because I don't want to have to reach for anything if I need it." Seriously? WHAT IS MY PROBLEM?!? Why the aversion to extending my arms?

Want more proof? This is how out of control my reach-loathing has become:

• I've left clothes in the dryer for multiple cycles not because I don't want to fold them, but because I don't want to reach into the back of the drum to get them out.

• Right this second I can see a foil wrapper from a chocolate Easter egg on the floor and I am hoping one of my cats sees it tonight and bats it around until it gets stuck under the TV armoire. That way I don't have to look at it for the next 11 days before my in-laws arrive, which will force my hand (to pick up the wrapper).

• I regularly pass by coins on the ground -- and not just pennies. I'll deny myself dimes and quarters not because I am worried about honesty or germs, but because I would have to reach down to grab it. Boone, on the other hand, will pick up anything remotely resembling a coin (probably because he's trying to offset Target expenses).
  

• Today while I was fertilizing the lawn the top strap of my flip flop came out so that every time I took a step it swung around my big toe like a stripper on a pole (these are the juice avoiding flip-flops, by the way). I left it that way, taking huge steps with one foot to get the shoe back in place with momentum rather than bending over to shove the strap back in place. I'm sure my neighbors thought I was having a seizure.
  

Admit it -- it's a problem. Maybe for my birthday this year someone can get me one of those grabby things on a pole that the elderly and trash collectors use to pick things up. That would work until the day I accidentally drop it and just like that I'd be back to square one.

I guess the plus side of all of this is that I have become incredibly adept at grabbing things with my toes (this does not bother me as I can remain upright the whole time). I can easily get a blankie off the floor and into the arms of a tantruming boy with a skillful flick of my ankle.

And some days, my dear friends, that's worth it's weight in sock lint.