Lazy

It’s not that I don’t want to do anything; I just don’t want to do what I don’t want to do.

I’m fully motivated to take naps, ride my bike to the library, or graze the refrigerator; it’s just that I have no inclination to weed the garden, mop the floor, or organize all the loose photographs in those boxes on my bookshelves.

Is this laziness?

Honestly, I’m too lazy to figure it out.

What I take to be the virtuous part of me aspires to action; I know I’d feel better about myself if I took care of business.  But what I believe to be the lesser aspect of me is not persuaded.  It would rather wallow in self-recrimination than do what it probably oughtta.

Maybe I’m held hostage by a neo-liberal quasi-Victorian free-market capitalistic conception of what’s valuable.  It’s all about action and accomplishment or else.

Maybe our collaborative community-based hunter-gatherer ancestors would be perfectly cool with my lack of initiative; after all, I’ve got a full belly and a roof over my head for the night.  Why not take a break?

I mean it’s not like I’m leaving dirty dishes in the sink; my yard, while not the tidiest on the block, is not a health hazard.  It still floss every day, for heaven’s sake.

Still, it’s obvious that I’m not doing all I could to make the world—much less my own life—a better place.

How much is enough?  Is it adequate that at least I’m not making the world—much less my own life—a significantly worse place?

Things might be better for everyone if the richest and most powerful people in the world were a little—if not a lot—lazier.  

Imagine if world leaders got up tomorrow and instead of working so hard to oppress people and drop bombs on their enemies, they all just said, “Nah, feeling too lazy to do so.”

Maybe we’re all not lazy enough!