No More Procrastinating

Angela slouches on the stationary bike, her right thumb swiping rhythmically across her phone screen, keeping time with the soft sighs coming from the slowly rotating wheel. Swipe, sigh, swipe, sigh, swipe, sigh. The sound has a pathetic quality, and she wonders with a stab of conscience if it could be caused by dust in the mechanism. She loses her rhythm and looks at the raindrops trickling miserably down the dark window pane. Maybe one of her resolutions next year should be to stop allowing herself to be guilt-tripped by inanimate objects.

Catching sight of the digital read-out on her bike, Angela sits up a little straighter and pushes the pedals down with a bit more vigor. Three hundred and sixty-five days ago, cycling one hundred miles in a year seemed like a great goal. Satisfying. Achievable. She’d done pretty well too, all through Spring. But then with the heat of Summer, well… Now, as the last few hours of the year ticked resolutely onward, every un-biked mile on the optimistic wall chart seemed to stare accusingly at her. Twelve to go. She’s been on this bike for hours. It is part of her now.

Angela’s posture slumps again as she returns her attention to her phone. She has a few new matches. She’d better, after all the swiping she’s been doing. Is it possible to develop tendinitis in your thumb? She quickly types out a message to the first guy on the list, hardly even glancing at his profile photo.

“Look, I promised myself I’d start dating this year, and now it’s nearly over. What do you have going on in the next four hours?”

That ought to separate them out pretty fast, she thinks as she pastes the message into every new possibility’s inbox. Then she switches over to her notes app. It doesn’t look like a huge list. Nine little items. Nine short lines of text, but every time she looks at them, they seem to grow, until now they look like a horizontal forest, or bars on a window.  The first item is bigger than the others: NO MORE PROCRASTINATING.

She glares at it. There must be something she can check off.

“7. Call Mom more often.”

When had they talked last? She taps the phone icon next to her mom’s face, and listens as the phone rings, and rings, and rings. The call goes through to voicemail. She hangs up with a sigh, and then wonders if it would have counted if she’d left a message.

A notification drops down from the top of the screen. One of the guys has responded to her message.

“Love the enthusiasm ;)” he says. “I have absolutely nothing going on in the next four hours, and am dangerously close to feeling sorry for myself. Want to meet up?”

Oh.

Angela’s stomach lurches, and she feels a squeeze of panic. Until now, the deadline of midnight had felt distant, almost artificial. But now she has a date. Or the potential for one, at least. And nine other resolutions to fulfill. She checks the time. Just after eight o’clock.

“Would it be weird to suggest coffee?” she asks. “I could use some caffeine if I’m going to make it through the rest of the year.”

As she waits for his response, she squints at his profile photo. He looks like he might be cute, and she wonders why that makes her heart sink.

“Valid,” he types back.

They settle on a place, and all of a sudden Angela has only half an hour to get ready. Before she jumps in the shower, she tries to call her mom once again. Still no answer. She shampoos her hair and towels it dry with a rough vigor that would make her hairdresser cry, throws on some concealer and mascara, and then faces the inevitable dilemma of what to wear.

She tries on a few dresses before deciding that they all look too try-hard. Eventually she settles on a pair of black jeans and an oversized turtleneck sweater that balances comfort and elegance. Or at least that’s what she’s telling herself. Surely, this is how that illusive concept, the French girl, would dress for a first date, right? Although a French girl would probably never choose jeans specifically because they covered over a multitude of stubbly sins.

At any rate, she doesn’t have time now to overthink her choice any further. Leaving her discarded outfit options thrown haphazardly across her bed or crumpled on the floor, she grabs her bag and a jacket and runs out the door.

A second later, she runs back in.

Item number five on the list: “Organize Closet.”

She grabs all the clothes and shakes them out impatiently; putting them on their hangers and shoving them back in the closet. Stepping away, she surveys the effect, and then dives forward to rearrange them so all the dresses are hanging together. For good measure, she closes the sliding doors before dashing out again.

Another second passes, and she’s back again.

Scrabbling through the clutter on the closet shelves, she unearths a ball of pink yarn and a crochet hook, which she stuffs into her bag before finally leaving the apartment.

In spite of all the doubling back, she reaches the coffee shop before her date. She hesitates, looking around doubtfully before selecting a table for two along the wall close to the exit. Since she has a bit of free time, she pulls the yarn out of her bag and finds a tutorial on her phone: How To Crochet for Absolute Beginners. Item six, “Learn a new hobby”.

She becomes absorbed in the tutorial, wondering if the slipknot counts as the first link in a chain, and whether or not it will substantially alter the outcome of her experiment. She doesn’t even notice when another person enters the coffee shop.

“Angela?” A smooth, warm voice says, and she looks up to see a man standing behind the empty chair, a tiny bit of shyness lurking behind his smile. He is the man she was messaging earlier, but unfortunately the photo didn’t do him justice. His hair is longer, flopping over his forehead in dark, untidy curls, and his eyes are deep brown.

“Yes, hi,” Angela says, collecting her thoughts and putting her crochet chain aside. She becomes horrifyingly aware that she didn’t make note of his name while they were chatting on the app. Did it start with an M? She plasters on a smile and stands up, hoping her friendly expression will replace any need for a conventional salutation. “Shall we order?”

As they wait for their drinks at the end of the counter, Angela sneaks little glances at the man beside her. Now that they’re here, she is regretting her blunt approach, but she has no idea what to say.

“Plain black coffee at this hour,” he remarks. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or scared. Or both.”

“Yeah, I’ve just… I biked thirty miles today, and I’ve got to keep myself awake.” She enjoys his look of astonishment as he grabs his decaf tea and they head back to their table.

“Thirty miles? Mark me down as officially impressed!”

Angela allows herself to bask in his admiration for a moment, trying not to think about the ten miles that still lie ahead of her. A few minutes ago, she had thought she could make this a short date and get back home to finish those miles with time to spare. But now that she’s looking at him, she’s not at all sure she wants the date to end so quickly.

The man is looking at her with a quizzical expression, and she suddenly realizes that she has been silent for a long time. As she opens her mouth, still desperately casting about for something to say, her phone rings.

“Oh! Sorry, hang on, sorry!” She scrabbles for her phone. “It’s my mom, I have to take this. Sorry.”

“Hi, sweetheart! Sorry I missed your calls earlier. Is everything okay?” her mom’s voice comes blasting through the phone and Angela winces, holding the it away from her ear. Her mom has never quite realized that it isn’t necessary to shout into the receiver when calling a cellphone.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine, Mom,” Angela assures her. “I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing. It’s been a while.”

“Oh, we’ve been doing just fine over here,” her mom blares. “What about you?”

“I’ve been fine,” Angela says. She glances at the man in front of her and adds, “Listen, Mom, I’m actually on a date right now, but I’ll call you again soon, okay? Love you, bye!”

She ends the call quickly, before her mom can broadcast her surprise and interest to the entire coffee shop. “Sorry about that. It’s just that I’ve been meaning to call her more often, and I haven’t really gotten around to it much.”

Angela is rambling, because while she has her phone in front of her face, she is snatching the chance to find the guy’s name in her messages list.

“Hugo,” she says aloud, and immediately feels her face flame red. “How, how did you get such an unusual name?” she adds quickly, hoping it isn’t completely obvious that she is looking him up.

The man laughs. “Well, I guess it’s actually a pretty common name in France.”

“France?” He has her full attention now.

“Yeah.” Hugo laughs sheepishly. “I was born there. But we moved to the States when I was three months old, so it doesn’t really count.”

His eyes wander from her face to her phone, down to her black coffee, and over to the ball of yarn sitting on the bench seat next to her. “You really weren’t joking about this being for a resolution, were you?”

The heat of embarrassment that had just begun to seep away from Angela’s cheeks surged back again. “Oh.” For a wild moment, she considers denying it, but Hugo’s amused eyes have her pinned. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“I don’t mind. What’s the story behind putting that on a list? And then apparently not following through?”

“I don’t know. I guess… I turned thirty this year, and I guess I was feeling like I ought to have some sort of relationship by this point. But what with…” She waves her hands vaguely. “Everything over these past couple of years, you know, it just got so easy not to try.”

Hugo nods. “I get that. Well, I’m happy I can help you crush your goals. Wait, I’m curious now. What else is on your list? If you don’t mind sharing. Something about yarn? And calling your mom.”

“M-hm. Learning a new hobby. Crochet seemed simple enough, and maybe relaxing. And you get something pretty at the end.”

“And is it those things?”

“I think it might be, once I know what I’m doing. This is, um, the first time I’ve tried it.”

“Is it?” His lips quiver, but he offers no other comment. “Okay, so what was your biggest goal for the year?”

Wordlessly, Angela opens her notes app and holds her phone out so he can read her list, with its big “NO MORE PROCRASTINATING” right at the top. Hugo throws back his head and laughs, his eyes squeezing shut in pure amusement.

“I’m sorry,” he says, recovering himself. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear. It’s just so relatable. I stopped making New Year’s resolutions years ago, actually.”

Angela feels a genuine smile spreading over her face. “I should try that some time.”

“It’s very freeing. Now let’s see… Number one, ‘no more procrastinating.’ You’ve done that. Great job. Two, ‘start dating.’ Here you are, on a date. Fantastic. Have you written in a journal?”

“Not yet. I’ll save that one for eleven fifty-nine.”

Hugo grins at her, and Angela is ridiculously elated.

“Number Four, ‘eat healthy.’” He looks up questioningly. Angela grimaces.

“I mean, I ate a salad for lunch today.”

“That’s healthy. Check. Hey, you’re doing pretty good!”

Laughter bubbles up in her chest. “I’m not sure one salad on the last day of the year exactly counts.”

He makes a big show out of scanning the list, scrunching up his face and holding the phone so it nearly touches his nose. “Nope, no sign of a specification of frequency or amount of healthy eating listed here. It counts. Have you organized your closet?”

“I picked up some clothes off my chair and hung them in the closet before I came here.”

“Hmmm.” He narrows his eyes. “But did you organize them? This is serious business. It could have a big impact on how the rest of your year goes.”

“All three hours of it?”

“Indeed. It only takes a minute to change the course of a life. I left my monocle at home; otherwise I’d peer at you through it. Then you’d understand the gravity of the situation.”

Angela puts on a contrite expression. “Yes, sir. I did make sure all my dresses were hanging next to each other. Will that do?”

“I suppose that is the vital thing,” he says reluctantly. “Very well, I shall let that one slide.”

“Generous of you,” she murmurs.

“Next we have ‘learn a new hobby.’ The evidence before my eyes is that you are capable of producing…” He picks up the pink tail of her chain stitches. “A very passable representation of a crocheted earthworm. An excellent hobby. Very Zen.”

“Oh no, is that really what it looks like?” Angela gathers up the yarn and shoves it back in her bag. “I don't think I can continue after that.”

He shrugs. “Not every hobby will stick with us for life.  I’ve seen you speak to your mom on the phone. Was that the only time you’ve done it this year?”

“I called her twice before that today.”

“Excellent.”

“I mean she didn’t answer the phone, but—“

Hugo flips his hand dismissively. “I don’t need details. You have called her twice in one day, and she called you once. That is an impressive amount of communication. Bravo.”

He glances back down at the list and gasps. “Learn a new language! Excellent! What languages do you speak already?”

“Just English. Well, and some ASL in high school, but I’ve forgotten most of that.”

“And here you sit with a man who is French by a technicality! It’s fate.”

“You speak French?”

“Bien sûr que oui. C'était ma langue principale jusqu'à ce que je commence l'école. Je le parle toujours avec mes parents.”

“Uh, okay, cool. Want to teach me?”

“Okay. Say, ‘Je m'amuse ici avec toi.’”

“What?”

He repeats it slowly, letting her say each word as he does, and correcting her pronunciation several times.

“All right,” Angela laughs after she finally gets it perfect. “Now tell me what I’m saying.”

“You’re saying, ‘I’m having fun here with you.’ Thank you; I’m having a good time too.”

She rolls her eyes, but lets the statement stand.

“And now,” Hugo drums on the table with his fists. “The grand finale. Bike one hundred miles! Can she do it? Were those thirty miles enough? Can Angela cross of every single one of these resolutions before the stroke of midnight?”

“I have ten miles to go!”

He jumps to his feet. “What? Why are you still here? You should be on a bike right now!”

Angela flops back in her seat and groans. “I never want to look at my bike again. My legs are going to ache so bad tomorrow.”

“Yeah, well, everybody else’s heads will ache, so you’ll be in good company. Come on, you can do it, you’ve got time and you’re caffeinated! I believe in you.”

She groans again, but pushes herself up to her feet. Hugo cheers.

“Hey, message me when you cross the finish line, okay? I’m personally invested in this now.”

Back in her apartment, Angela’s excitement spikes, and she can almost ignore the screaming in her legs. The screen on her stationary bike ticks off the distance: 9.8 miles… 9.9 miles… 10 miles!

She topples off the bike and stretches out full-length on the floor. For a moment, she just stares up at the ceiling, and then she checks the time. Three minutes to midnight! She raises one fist over her head and whoops feebly, and then opens her message thread with Hugo.

“100 miles done!”

His response, three lines worth of every emoji that is even remotely celebratory, arrives almost immediately. Angela thinks he must have had it already typed and ready to send. He follows it rapidly with “Congratulations!!! I knew you had it in you.”

As she grins at her screen, another message appears: “I had fun tonight, by the way. I hope you put dating back on your list for next year.”

Her smile grows even wider, and she types out, “I just might do that.”

With another glance at the clock, she hauls herself to her hands and knees and crawls over to the table, where a notebook and pen lay open, waiting.

“Dear diary,” she writes. “I have completed every single one of my resolutions this year. The future looks bright!”

As she dots the final exclamation mark, the fireworks begin.