My wife was in her recliner, on her computer, reading about penis enlarging devices (don't ask). The ginger cat leaped up onto her. He's the twenty pounder. She is not a large woman. We indulge him his lap attempts because he's a sweet purr machine and we're suckers for those green eyes, pink nose, and white whiskers.
"Okay," she said. "You can stay but please lay down."
He answered, "Meow, purrrr, look at my eyes." He did not lie down.
"He will," I said, "but he'll choose The Moment."
I know this from experience. Each of our cats have The Moment. They arrive, look around, tes positions, and check my odors (what is that smell?). Sometimes their process involves kneading. I think they do that to check my pain threshold.
And yes, as predicted, after a few minutes of purring, looking around, and marking my wife's laptop in case he needs to find it later, and a knead test, the orange boy sprawled across her lap.
I'm not much different from the cats. I think most people dance with The Moment before doing things.
Take my work. Please.
I'm like the cats, without claws or fur and with uglier whiskers. I must partake of a routine to reach The Moment, although my routine doesn't include kneading. Every morning, I check emails, make coffee and breakfast and check my schedule. Then I decide what I need to do. Most days and activities, I know exactly what must be done and how, but I don't do it. I wait for The Moment. Some coffee must be tasted, news absorbed, "Rhymes With Orange", "Doonesbury", and "Baby Blues" must be read, and the weather must be checked. Thinking must be done. Wandering around the house is sometimes indulged, and I look at windows. Then The Moment strikes and I go to work.
Elitists will smugly accuse me of procrastinating.
I can't define myself against their Ivy League, Elitist attitude so I won't try. Real working Americans know what The Moment is about. People who ask people out know about The Moment. For some, it's a quick strike moment. Others must build to The Moment.
Writing is a lot like that for me. I like walking to get coffee. I take my laptop with me and do my writing there. Many days I write in my head as I walk so when I arrive, power up and take my first sip of coffee, I've reached The Moment. Sweet.
Our house cleaning requires The Moment. My wife will be on her computer and tell me several times, "I need to get up and clean. I'll do it in a moment." That moment sometimes takes a few hours until The Moment arrives. Sometimes The Moment keeps its head in its shell and must be coaxed out with coffee or tea.
My yard work requires The Moment, too. Any work that I do, in fact, as does calling my parents to chat with them, and asking my wife how long we're going to stay at a party.
In some situations, it seems like The Moment will never arrive.
Causes Michael Seidel Supports
Kiva, Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, Propublica.org, Doctors Without Borders, GreaterGood.com