In today's world, it seems simple to rationalize virtually anything, even the worst part of ourselves. When everything happens for a reason, what are we to make of the negative aspects of ourselves and our lives? Given a choice between arrogance and self-deprecation, it's seen as more acceptable to be critical of ourselves. Somewhat paradoxically, there's a tinge of pride to humility, when we know that it will be embraced and rewarded. Truthfully, it's all a matter of perspective. The braggadocios have their fans too. Life is short; why cower behind modesty?
I've been thinking a lot about this seeming cultural reluctance to label people as lazy. It's true, shaming people rarely produces the desired result, especially in a culture that reveres the shameless. Still, I've seen laziness swatted away in favor of depression, anxiety, decision paralysis, and procrastination. We tell ourselves that we grow inert as a response to a world that moves too fast and demands that react at a moment's notice to things that ultimately don't matter. I can tell you with a straight face that I procrastinate because I am paralyzed by all of the decisions I have to make, which induce anxiety, and ultimately, depression, when I fall short of my goals. That I'm not lazy. And I will believe it it.
Yet it offers me no peace from the truth. I am not meeting the goals I've set for myself. There's a part of me that rankles at the thought that I'm, perhaps, being too easy on myself. When is laziness real and not a symptom of something else? Why do I have a hierarchy of procrastinations, things I've avoided but will do instead of the worst thing on my list? I know that having a talk with myself on the page or in the mirror won't change my behavior, but slowly but surely, action will. I know habits are formed step by step, one repetition at a time. As much as I resist routine, it's marvelous to be able to do the things I dislike most without even thinking. I would like to get there with time and daily effort. I know it.