I feel incredibly rested after spending 3,5 hours reading at the auto dealership yesterday. It’s like I’ve been to a spa but better because nobody was touching me.
Here is the sad paradox of my life. If I spend 3 hours watching Dr Phil reruns, rereading a dumb mystery for the fifth time, or stupidly browsing the internet, I won’t feel guilty and uncomfortable and I won’t devise complex avoidance strategies.
But if I try to spend the same 3 hours reading something work-related or intellectual, I will. And this is crazy because I enjoy it a lot more than browsing, rereading crap and watching reruns. But the guilt is stronger than enjoyment.
So unless somebody forces me into a car dealership that I can’t escape from, I’ll avoid, self-sabotage and interrupt.
It’s the struggle of my life.