A Day of Doing Nothing

It was a fine Saturday morning, but for me, it was less a call to action and more a polite invitation to lounge about. The day began as many do: the sun leaping over the horizon like a show-off rooster who’d won a bet.

My to-do list, however, did not stir with such enthusiasm. It sat on the desk where I’d left it, a piece of paper with grand ideas like “clean the gutters” and “write to Aunt Gertrude,” each suggestion feeling more like a personal attack than a helpful reminder.

I stared at the list as one does at an enemy soldier across a battlefield, each line item armed with the potential to ruin my streak of idleness. The gutters would remain clogged for another day; Aunt Gertrude, whose last letter had been a three-page sermon on the evils of modern dancing, could surely wait another week.

Instead, I devised a brilliant plan to improve my productivity by removing distractions. Naturally, this began with a hearty breakfast.

Pancakes seemed the proper antidote to ambition, being both indulgent and a bit of a hassle to make. By the time I’d cooked and consumed them, the clock had advanced to the comfortable hour of eleven, and I congratulated myself on having made it through the morning without lifting a finger.

The list still loomed, but I reasoned that a man should prepare his mind for labor. And what better preparation than a little light reading? I selected a novel of some length and weight—something respectable enough that should anyone ask–I could pretend I was improving myself. The story was so engaging that I forgot all about the gutters and Aunt Gertrude, not to mention the other pressing tasks like “fix the squeaky door” and “find the cat.”

By mid-afternoon, I realized I’d worked up quite a thirst from all that mental exertion. A trip to the general store for a bottle of sarsaparilla would perfectly break up the day.

Naturally, this led to an extended conversation with Mr. Pritchard, the storekeeper, about the declining quality of shoe leather and the recent misadventures of Mrs. Buckley’s prize goat, Clementine. By the time I returned home, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long shadows across my porch and making the to-do list appear smaller and less threatening.

As evening fell, I took stock of the day. The gutters were still clogged, Aunt Gertrude remained unlettered, and the cat—well, the cat had probably found a new family by now. But I had eaten well, read broadly, and upheld the time-honored tradition of putting off until tomorrow what could most certainly wait.

I retired to bed with a clear conscience, for if there’s one thing I’ve learned, a man can accomplish a great deal by simply deciding to do nothing and sticking to it. As Mark Twain himself might have said, “Never put off until tomorrow what you can avoid altogether.”