The Early Bird Gets the Worm, The Late One Kills Rudolph

I procrastinate.  A lot.  And if I must say so myself, I’m  very good at it.  Most weeks I successfully put off Monday until about Wednesday.  And if it’s a really good week, my Monday doesn’t come around until Saturday, which works out great because I like Saturdays a great deal more than I like Mondays.  I know you’re wondering what the point is.  Procrastinators aren’t usually held in high regard.  Why brag?  Only I’m not bragging, really.  I’m simply pointing out that most people will do things they’re good at repeatedly.  Until they’re no longer good at them, or disaster strikes.  So when I relay to you the unspeakable tragedy that struck our family at the hands of my procrastination, you’ll know that it occurred not because I was putting something off, but quite the opposite, because I was fully engaged in doing something I’m very good at.

I’ve been meaning to put our outdoor Christmas lights and decorations away since the day after Christmas.  And now it’s the day after January and they’re still up.  Procrastination.  I should add here that Katie isn’t convinced it’s actually procrastination I suffer from, but rather the Ohioan in me that leaves me prone to displaying our Christmas until we head to the beach for our summer vacation.  And only removing them then because I’m afraid someone will steal them while we’re gone.  It dates back to our first trip to Ohio together when she noticed a couple of houses with lights still dangling from their roofs well past Christmas.  Ok - an entire neighborhood of houses.  In July.  I maintain, though, my issues have roots in procrastination, not Ohio.

I’m sure you remember our friend Rudolph whom the boys rescued from Home Depot the first week of December.  The same Rudolph we transported in the front seat of my truck, taking him from isolation on the top shelf of the holiday section to stardom in our Christmas yard production. I’m sure even Rudolph never dreamt his fame would linger into President’s Day and beyond. Or that it would end in what could be confused for the final scenes of a Steven King production.

I suppose I should have known that putting off my post-Christmas chore was only inviting 50 MPH winds.  If only I had grown as attached to our friend in the front yard as my children did, I would have had a bit more foresight.  But I didn’t.  

So when the winds came howling this week, my thoughts were centered solely on our roof.  And the likelihood that it might become my neighbor’s roof.  Or at least her front yard.  I didn’t think for a second about our old buddy Rudolph and how delightful being packed away in a box in the shed might sound to him at the moment.  But it occurred to me the next morning when I walked out the front door and caught my first glimpse of our post-storm reindeer, the one that used to have a shiny nose – and a head attached to his neck, that I might have waited a day too long.  Procrastinated.  I tried to recall if Katie and I saw any scenes like this one traveling through Ohio all those years ago.  I couldn’t.

    Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (December 1, 2012 – January 29, 2013)