Keep on Truckin'

A symptom, and a predictive one at that, of the miasma in which I'm lurching around this week is The Shuffle.

No, smartypants, not that dance you used to do back when you were wearing bell-bottoms and flowing shirts with collars that came down to your nipples. That was the Hustle. Or am I thinking of the Electric Slide? Whatever. The Shuffle I'm talking about is the one where I'm so lost, and know it, that I violate my vows and start tinkering with my support mechanisms.

I've been writing lately about the necessity of completing one task at a time.

Accomplishing something — anything — is more valuable than bouncing around like a superball in a squash court. I believe this. So when I find myself spending an hour trying to decide whether I should put all my eggs in LinkedIn or in Plaxo, especially when neither is essential, I know it's time to put a couple of reefs (I wanted to write "reeves" in hoof/hooves, calf/calves, but then one of the other editors resident in my noisy little cranium pointed out that a "reeve" was a local official in medieval England. Haven't you read the Canterbury Tales lately?) in the mainsail.

You know exactly what I'm talking about, mon vieux. Trying to figure out how to link my Google calendar to my email, so that it can send me reminders to reference my new to-do list, which will tell me to consult the chart on the bulletin board over my desk, on which I've already forgotten to post any items for the last five days.

The old vicious circle. Around and around and at the end of the day, nothing but sore feet.

Back to square one. Pick one thing. Do it. Pick another thing. Do it.

Some people can dance. Some can sail. Some can multi-task.

When I feel like this, all I can do is keep on truckin'. (Cue the Eddie Kendricks tune.)