Enmired in the depths of procrastination, as per usual, and it came across my mind that putting things off is definitely one of my vices. I have several, but imaginative procrastination might be one of my favorites.
Yesterday, coming out of an ACT session at Central (complete with token 2 white kids from Miami Shores), I decided that instead of working dilligently on the TESOL paper that I (today) found out is due on Wednesday, I should go lie in the sun. True, napping in the gentle springtime Miami sun was pretty much divine, but did little to advance my academic growth. Sunning oneself with a delicate norweigan complexion is a favorite foible of mine, leading to much aloe. Luckily this weekend my little green friend wasn't needed. After my restorative basking, clearly the house just *had* to be clean, so I did dishes, cleaned my room and the litterbox. Outstanding.
It then took me a good hour to motivate myself into getting to the gym for a workout, another of my addictive vices. In the D-Place weight room, I met the most precocious 5 year old that I have encountered in quite some time. Dejanee (Day-shuh-nay) and I had a surprising amount of things in common, including our fascination with the elliptical trainer, our desire to be teachers (though she wants to teach Head Start, not 9th grade. I don't blame her), and our mutual dislike of small babies. Plus, as anyone knows, Beyonce is cool. Perhaps I don't hate all children, just the ones that drive around on their mini ATV's early on Saturday and Sunday mornings and knock over my plants.
Procrastination really snowballed out of control when I totally blew off work to have dinner out on the Shuckers' dock with the crew. Our supposed quick trip to the seafood bar stretched into a languid two hours as we sat on the deck with breezes from the bay. Pretty sweet, huh? Then, all of a sudden, it was 11:00.
I can be pretty talented at finding things to do other than whatever activity I'm supposed to be completing.
Take, for example, my next vice: Fiametta. Much, too much of this weekend was spent rectifying the rusted side panel that I painted last summer. Damn cheap primer; aah, sweet sunny Sunday afternoons. I love that damn thing, and even though it's never going to look as nice as I want it to, the engine's going to crap out, and the 1.5 speakers are busted, she draws me in. Countless hours down the drain running errands to get paint, sandpaper; countless brain cells evaporated from inhaling aerosol on windy days. Sigh. The double-edged sword of vice.
All this talk of vice, depravity, and licentiousness (although, unfortunately there hasn't been much of that lately) originated sometime Friday night when VA and I cruised back from Aventura via Biscayne Boulevard. I should, at this time, mention that this particular roadway, AKA US highway 1, has historically been the hotbed of Miami's prostitution industry. Pun intended.
Biscayne is lined with the seediest, sketchiest 1920's motels that I have ever seen in my life. Half of them look like they were ripped right out of the pags of some Elmore Leonard novel, except that this isn't Hollywood. I see hookers regularly in the mornings at the bus stops on my way to work, and there's even a local hip-hop song called "Miami Clap" (not really sure if there's some pun going on *there*) which features the line "I'm gonna be on sixty-first, wearin' my dukes." When there's an allusion to your neighborhood in a hip-hop song, you know you're ghetto.
With this in mind, when us two little whiteys saw 6 cop cars at 59th street at 10:30 on a Friday night at the "Seven Seas Motel," we didn't really bat a blonde eyelash. What did catch our eyes were the 8 white vans, camera crews, lights, and boom mic's. At the time, my guess was that CSI Miami was filming on location. This alone would have been cool, and pretty amusing that they came down to Morningside for the crime scene. But no, ardent listeners, it gets better! Carlos, a little more adventuresome (and insane) than the two of us girls, went over to the "set" the next day to find Jamie Foxx and Michael Mann hard at work on 2006's "Miami Vice." I nearly ran off the road when I found out that Colin Farrel could have been 7 blocks from my apartment. Luckily my less depraved instincts took over, and I merely shrieked in delight that our little community was the site of a major motion picture.
So yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am living in vice city, experiencing the high life Miami-style. Now, if only I could conquer my favorite indulgence and finish my paper. In such a vice-ridden environment, I'm not sure if it's even humanly possible.
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