STATEMENT

A Proclivity for Procrastination: The Story of My “ L O ST SEM E S T ERS”

MELANIE TAYLOR Statement Correspondent

I love a good, classic loading screen. I don’t mean those obnoxiously slow progression bars or the tracker timelines on food delivery apps that halt on each stage for 15 minutes. My favorites are the small, simple graphics that repeat in perpetuity with no discernible end to their progression. The repetitive, continuous motion is oddly calming. I love the little revolving lights that circle around and around, lavishing away the time. Or the hypnotic pulsing atop the TikTok menu as it struggles to load new content.

I love loading screens because, in that ephemeral period of rendering, the stakes are lower than low. It’s a liminal moment, a beat between lines, a time to rest. There are no expectations on you because, by nature of the technology, there’s nothing you can or should be doing in that instant. It’s like the calm before the storm. I know that in a moment, I’ll be forced to reckon with the task at hand, but all I can do in the meantime is wait.

As soon as the application loads, you’re thrust back into the turmoil of anticipated productivity; the clock resumes its incessant ticking. Rest takes on a new name: procrastination. My screen assaults me with a thin, blinking cursor on the fresh Word Doc, mocking and prodding with each flicker. Now you see me, now you don’t. Why won’t you put me to use? While the loading screen represents a brief, sanctioned, finite hiatus, the cursor could blink on in judgment forever.

Sometimes I wish I could dive right into the loading screen and ride the blinking light on its ceaseless track like a digital merry-go-round. More often, however, I feel like the lone cursor, resting on the precipice of potential, flashing in and out of existence like a specter haunting the page as I conjure up my next great passage. If I dwell too long on the pressure of the task, I simply freeze in place.

There is no gradient in the way I experience stress. Whether I have a deadline in three days or three hours, if I’m struck with writer’s block or my ideas won’t calibrate, my anxiety will evoke the same measure of stress. But every time I decide to take a break, to indulge in the luxury of relaxation, I can feel the pressure melt away. That same sense of serenity is renewed every time I let myself push the task off for another day.

I had a friend who told me once that she liked to wear her retainer once a week — no more, no less. She relished the feeling of slight discomfort that came with the sporadic endeavor. Any more often, and her teeth would have molded to their proper places, undermining the purpose of the exercise. Any less often, and she would be denying herself the masochistic joy of the experience.

That’s kind of how I feel about procrastination. I know that eventually, I’ll have to address the task, but there’s a certain thrill in letting the deadline inch closer and closer for a buzzer-beating win. Counterproductive as the strategy may be, the risk is part of the reward.

Stalling is a dangerous vice because its short-term benefits eclipse the long-term consequences. What is the point of punctuality? Why would I ever elect proactivity over procrastination when the former requires so much more effort and the latter packs a more rewarding punch? I can live with the blinking cursor’s nagging admonition, especially when I can simply close my laptop and willfully forget. ***

When I was in sixth grade, my mom mysteriously vanished from our Thanksgiving celebration early in the morning. It was a full week before my dad explained to my brother and me that our mom had checked into rehab and was seeking counsel for her alcoholism.

I don’t remember my mom’s addiction being an imposition on our family. I was only 11 at the time, and my brother was even younger. Sure, my mom drank on vacations, but I couldn’t yet discern the difference between social drinking and drinking to excess. She never drank and drove, she never embarrassed me, but clearly, the issue was severe enough to warrant treatment. All I knew was that when my mom returned home, she seemed happier and healthier than I’d ever remembered her being. Last week was her 10-year anniversary of sobriety.

I’ve always regarded my mom’s decision to check into rehab as the pinnacle of maturity and self-discipline. She had the remarkable foresight to get ahead of her addiction, addressing the problem while her children were still young before it had the chance to fester any further. As evidenced by this decision, my brother and I were raised in a household that valued accountability and acknowledged the dangers of addiction.

There were no flippant analogies to addiction in my house; no graphic tees with the phrase “chocoholic” or “addicted to naps” plastered across the front. I’ve pondered the weight of this disease since before my adolescent growth spurt. It’s one of, if not the sole reason why I can say with complete sincerity that I have addictive tendencies when it comes to procrastination.

I wasn’t always prone to this behavior. My whole childhood was an exercise in selfcensorship and perfectionism. I distinctly remember the first time I ever dared to ask my parents for something without already knowing their answer would be yes. I naturally fell into the mold of a “perfect daughter,” and some part of me was afraid that if I started poking holes in that facade, it would all come crashing down.

I was a top-notch kid. I don’t say this seeking any praise. It’s just true. I got perfect grades, had a diverse set of extracurriculars, worked 30 hour weeks at the local ice cream shop — the whole nine. I did everything that was asked of me above and beyond. I had high expectations for myself.

One night in eighth grade, I asked my parents if I could go to a 9 p.m. movie with a friend. It was a chilly fall school night, and I’d finished all of my homework, but I wasn’t sure if they’d let me go to the late showtime that ended slightly after my curfew. But when they said yes, a whole new world opened up to me. I began to recognize my own agency, particularly as it pertained to abstaining from the expectations that I’d always just assumed were requirements.

In my senior year of high school, I was editor-in-chief of our school’s newspaper. That was when I started pushing my luck with deadlines. On the eve of the first edition, I realized that we were one-story short from filling the pages, so I churned out 1,500 words in a single night and sent the completed edition off to the printing presses. It was a successful bout of simulated procrastination — a gateway into the more egregious offenses to come.

From then on, I procrastinated writing at least one piece (if not two or three) until the week of production. Quite frankly, it was invigorating, because I just kept getting away with it. I was hooked on the thrill of inaction.

The tendency to postpone and binge my responsibilities began seeping into my formal academics. My class had a full year to write our senior theses, but I wrote mine over the course of four afternoons. I crammed for every test the night before. I would accumulate work over weeks and weeks and then hole up in my room for a weekend every month to catch up. And I still graduated with a perfect record.

When I got to college, my self-destructive habits began to catch up with me. A’s turned to B’s turned to a whole semester of sealedoff grades for classes that I barely passed.

I was a sophomore when the pandemic hit campus and students were sent home. For the next two semesters, I did the bare minimum to get through my classes. I would wallow in a depressive state for hours on end, attend Zoom meetings with my camera turned off and whip up a subpar discussion post in 15 minutes before logging off for the weekend.

I cut off contact with every campus organization I’d joined. I didn’t call my parents or pick up when they called me. I would check in every few weeks to let them know I was still alive, but for the most part, I kept everyone at a distance. This was my proverbial “rock bottom.”

Growing up, before I discovered the splendor of edging my responsibilities, productivity and punctuality were my default modes. I never learned how to choose to work. It was like I was functioning on autopilot. Instead, I learned to choose by learning to let go. Yet once I’d let go, I didn’t have the skillset to start back up again. Accountability is so much easier to destroy than it is to create.

Sometimes I wish I’d never realized my agency, the power I have to simply press pause. Maybe then I’d be graduating with a better GPA or a fuller resume. Maybe then I’d be blissfully happy. But I catch myself whenever I lapse into that line of thinking and remind myself of my mom. If I hadn’t gone down this path when I did, I would have had to reckon with it later in life once I’d amassed more to lose. ***

When you’re addicted to a substance, the treatment is simple: You cut yourself off from the substance completely. This is not to say that the process is easy or inconsequential, but at least you have a road map. When your vice is something like procrastination, which will always exist as an option, there is no way to avoid its persistent beckoning.

During those few semesters, the urge to procrastinate was debilitating. Whenever I was overtaken by a passing thought of guilt, I brushed it off by doubling down in self-righteous inaction. I’ve since come to terms with the fact that guilt has value. It reminds you that what you’re doing is wrong, and encourages you to reverse course. I had to stop taking offense at reasonable criticism, even when it came from my own conscience.

I am still making an effort every day to be better than I was yesterday. I am not always successful. For example, I turned this essay in over 12 hours after it was due (sorry Statement friends). But the biggest thing I’ve learned from my “lost semesters” is that yesterday’s failure does not give me a free pass to make the same mistakes today. I have to choose to work all over again every single day.

What is the benefit of punctuality? Improved mental health, for one. Why choose proactivity over procrastination? To prove to yourself that you are capable of it. Perhaps that is easier said than done, but at least I know it’s possible. At this stage, that’s enough for me.

It’s fun to submit an assignment days before it’s due, with Canvas congratulating me with digital confetti for a job well done. The TV shows I used to employ as a distraction from the compounding workload are better without that constant twinge of anxiety looming over me as I watch. Loading screens are an earned respite when you know you’ve been working hard, and the blinking cursor is stripped of its power when it’s met with a piece of writing that I’m proud of.

Thankful for feeling Thankful

LILLY DICKMAN Statement Correspondent

Since the start of my childhood, Nov. 1 meant the hanging of a quilt from the stove in my kitchen. It was my mom’s “Thankful Quilt,” decorated with felt leaves, turkeys and other Thanksgiving-esque patches. More importantly, the quilt was lined with little pockets numbered one through 30 — a pocket for each day of the month. And every night, before eating dinner, my mom would have my sister and I write down what we were thankful for that day on tiny paper cards that tucked perfectly into the little felt slots. We did it each day until all 30 were filled and then tucked the quilt away for hibernation until the following November.

Our Thankful Quilt became such a routine part of our Novembers that the process came without much thought. Sometimes I’d put genuine effort into my day’s thankful card. Others, I’d scribble something down on the paper to expedite the commencement of the meal. If nothing else, the Thankful Quilt was familiar — it was tradition.

Last year was my first November away from home, yet I never thought about the quilt. I simply didn’t have the mental capacity to reminisce. At that time, I was preoccupied with the announcement that the freshman dorms were closing due to the uncontrollable COVID-19 spread. I was running around Ann Arbor trying to find housing for my second semester at the University of Michigan. I was worried about the friends I had made thus far, or lack thereof, and how my social life would play out with common areas unavailable to us. I was anticipating the nearly two-month break that was approaching, where the progress I had made in pioneering my pandemic-era first semester of college would be halted, maybe even reversed. I was operating in fight-or-flight, running on autopilot as a defense mechanism; thus, the Thankful Quilt didn’t grace my thoughts. This year, with life more settled, the treasured novelty made its return into my concerns. On

Nov. 1, I thought about the bare stove at home, which, on this day, was usually made merrier. I filled out a mental card and tucked it into a mental Nov. 1 pocket: “I’m thankful that I’m calm enough this year to think about our quilt.” The minute of gratitude felt like progress, for sure. I am infinitely grateful that now, come

November, it doesn’t necessarily feel like the world is crumbling in on me. That

I have certainty of my near future and a sense of purpose here at this school. Now I realize how much our circumstances can impact what we’re grateful for, what matters to us, what’s relevant, and what we feel lucky to have as ours. All of this can change in just one revolution around the sun, one November to the next. While I’m no longer in a

state of fight-or-flight, my life is still extremely hectic — just in a “normal life” sort of way. So are most students’ day-to-days here at the University. We’re running to classes, extracurriculars, social events and meetings. We’re navigating flu season, midterms and course scheduling. No one sits us down before dinner to make us pause and think. No one straps us to a chair and forces us to come up with something we’re thankful for before we’re able to receive our mobile order from Chipotle on State Street.

But I feel like we’re the ones who need a Thankful Quilt the most, even more so than our 8-yearold selves. Currently, at the University, we’re experiencing some of the most unique, rewarding, exciting years of our lives. But often, we’re too caught up in the everyday bustle to take note of what’s happening around us. As we run from classes to meetings, submit one assignment to Canvas and begin the next, we lose sight of the forest for the trees. That we need to stop and smell the roses may be cliché, but it’s cliché for good reason.

I have lots of anxiety, and I admittedly do complain a lot on a daily basis. But thinking about even how much I’ve grown and learned since August, or how much I have to be grateful for this year that would have been missing from my paper cards last year, things are looking, overall, pretty positive. I should be taking inventory more often to notice such a fact. I should be filling out a thankful card each and every night.

Moreover, we should notice and applaud what’s happening in our lives right now, before all of a sudden we’re putting on shorts again. Better yet, before we’re putting on a cap and gown, or even more daunting, professional clothes for our adult-life jobs.

Even though I let a handful of days slip through the cracks, about three days ago I decided I would re-implement the Thankful Quilt into my daily practice. Before allowing myself to indulge in my dinner, whatever and wherever it is, I’ve been pausing to write a mental card and place it in a mental pocket. On Nov. 8, I was thankful that I’m living in a sorority house with friends I’ll have for the rest of my life. On Nov. 9, I was thankful that I have such a well-rounded slew of classes and extracurriculars that are rewarding to me. I was grateful for Parents Weekend on Nov. 10 and Thursday nights out on Nov. 11. Come Nov. 12, I was grateful that we can now go to basketball games at the Crisler Center.

I called my mom alerting her of my practice, and she revealed that she’d saved the cards my sister and I had written growing up. Dug out from the

bottom of a drawer, they read: “I’m thankful for Eggos pancakes;” “I’m thankful that we have medicine;” “I’m thankful that I have time to practice my dance routine for Sunday;” “I’m thankful for sweatpants;” and “I’m thankful that we get to visit Michigan this weekend.”

Ironically, not much has changed. While I’m newly thankful to be secure in how to navigate a college campus, for Thursday nights out and for weeks without too much work, I’m still thankful for Eggo pancakes, and I’m always happy about a day spent in sweats. Coincidentally enough, I have a hip-hop team performance on Saturday and am still thankful that I’ve had enough time to practice for it. And obviously, I am thankful that I now go to Michigan and am here every weekend.

We should always be grateful for those nuts and bolts that withstand changing circumstances; like family, good health, and of course, sweatpants. But changing or static, whether we’re 10 or 20, it’s the stepping back, seeing the big picture and acknowledging our blessings that matters. Because life moves quickly — as quickly as the slots on the Thankful Quilt fill up, and as quickly as I grew up and am no longer home to partake in the activity.

Luckily, I’ll be home soon for Thanksgiving break to fill out pre-dinner thankful cards. But until then, and maybe even after, I think I’ll continue filling out my mental ones. Tonight, I am thankful for tradition, for the quilt itself. Of all my years slipping cards into those felt pockets, I never gave thanks to their reliable, yearly presence over my stove. I think my thanks is long overdue. Our little family ritual taught me to value the moment and what I have in it. And while I can’t carry the Thankful Quilt with me, I can certainly carry its teachings.

On ethical stealing

OSCAN NOLLETTE-PATULSKI Statement Correspondent

It’s mid-January, so it’s cold outside. In front of the sliding glass doors of the superstore, one can see the glimmer of snowflakes falling in the navy of night and the resulting slush on the pavement. Inside the doors, however, it’s warm. Fluorescent lights flood the surfaces and the metal shelves, filled to the brim with products across all genres. The rows have a certain metallic shine. Workers pace diligently throughout the store, but a particular corner goes unnoticed.

Hidden behind the vacant check-out counters is a group of teenagers unable to be seen due to height and in sufficient quantity to make a calculated circle. In the middle of this circle is a pair of hands, prying open the paperboard that contains a plush fried egg collectible. The collection of heads maintain the noise level with conversation and ensure security by frequently glancing outside of the huddle. The fried egg is freed from the confines of plastic and paper and is slipped silently into a jean pocket. Smiles of success are exchanged, and the group splits up into different checkouts to pay for the legally obtained items. The group ventures back into the winter’s night. It was only a few minutes after initiation, and the theft was complete.

What they did was illegal under all interpretations of the law and could land any of them with a scratch on their permanent record. But, was not paying for a small toy wrong?

Stories of small thefts, trespassing, and other petty crimes are often taboo subjects, especially among classmates or acquaintances whose potential reactions are hard to anticipate. Once one anecdote is shared, however, the door often opens for many more — what was once underground flows out to the surface. Conversations of recent robberies serve as a sort of group therapy among youth and young adults, validating an experience many keep within them due to fear of the law. Where the law and the general public draw the line is not necessarily the same, however. Hobby Lobby has been called “the best place to steal from,” with social media users citing its lack of barcodes and cameras. Others’ justification stems from the chain’s conservative anti-worker and anti-LGBT+ policies. Similarly, people steal from national chain stores like Walmart and Kroger with the mindset of fighting back against billion-dollar corporate-conglomerates.

The reasoning above is easy to say out loud, but are these actions doing any good in the real world? Target stores were looted in Minneapolis during summer 2020’s Black Lives Matter protests, some arguing that the losses would not even affect the superstore’s bottom line. But as The Atlantic points out, looters are usually different people than peaceful protestors, and what is equated with altruism may just be a vehicle for young adrenaline. ***

When one types in “Target,” “Meijer,” or any other retail giant into Google Maps while looking at southeast Michigan, many red pins appear just a few miles apart, affixed to the suburban grid-like knots on a quilt. The streets are threaded together by the continuity of corporate brands that might invoke a seasick sense of deja vu if one drives down them for too long. This repetition has no meaningful rhythm; the logos on metal poles that are meant to excite and attract blend together into a neon malaise.

It is easy to feel a sort of contempt and powerlessness when faced with the monolithic stucco walls and fields of pavement that characterize the landscape, even while equipped with the American ideals of freedom, and if you’re lucky, leisure time. After work and school are done for the day, what is there to do? And when the pressure to buy into the capitalist ecosystem becomes too much, what else is there to do but take back? Stealing as a way to feel something, as some may put it, is an increasingly acceptable source of entertainment. What other activity puts our brain and survival instincts to the test in a world where most things are a part of a dull exchange? Under the falling snow of a January night, what else besides theft with friends gets the blood pumping so quickly and with great reward? The capitalist fabric of America has stolen so much from people, whether it be space, time, or variety — doesn’t it only make sense to take some of that back?

This power dynamic is what seems to propel the thrill: Underdog customers stick it to the man by sticking something in their pockets. When “the man” is actually a person, whether that be a small business owner, a neighbor, or a friend of a friend, the action of robbery trespasses into something more personal. Walking down the tree-lined streets of Ann Arbor, many stores are one of a kind, titled with names of owners or the street that they are on; hand-painted windows advertising their particular niche. Go to a farm stand in Kerrytown enough times and you might get your apple cider with a side of pleasant banter, and learning the name of a new kind of lettuce might lead you to know the names of the people that sell the produce. The experience of shopping small is one that is photogenic, Instagram-mable and yields memories worth posting about in the increasingly popular monthly photo dump. On the contrary, heading over to Walgreens or CVS to spend money on generic snacks can’t be romanticized.

But stealing them can.

TikToks with the hashtag “#deviouslicks” have sprung up on the For You Page of millions, in an effort to channel a rebellious version of the main character archetype. They usually begin by describing the theft as “diabolical”, “devious” or “ungodly” as a remix of a 2014 Lil B song sings in the background. A few seconds later as the video concludes, one sees the unscrewing of a hubcap in the parking lot, or the empty holes of plumbing in the bathroom where a toilet usually connects. (It is worth noting that upon searching for the hashtag today, TikTok will invite you to learn how to recognize “harmful challenges”.) What is unique about these videos is the focus on stealing from one’s own school. Any unsupervised area is fair game: the soap dispensers of the boy’s bathroom, stockpiles of disposable masks formerly tucked away in closets or the occasional ceiling tile. To users, the risk of discipline is a small price to pay for the souvenirs of classroom chairs and the rush of recognition from millions of online peers. The boredom of mandatory education seeks to be remedied through the creation of avant-garde collections of stolen institutional furniture.

Yet unlike the retailers that dot the suburbs, schools do not aim to make money and in many areas, do not have enough. While the chronic underfunding of schools is low on the list of things someone who is about to steal the door to a bathroom stall might be thinking about, there are some who carefully consider the ethics of where exactly they choose to steal. This includes large corporations as mentioned earlier, but also not-for-profit retail stores like the Salvation Army and Goodwill over concerns of worker exploitation and discrimination. Perhaps viewed as more environmentally and financially conscious consumerism by the perpetrators, those in older generations may look down upon stealing this from charity, making it harder to do the good work these organizations have done.

But are the conditions of suburban boredom and corporate conglomerates enough to justify stealing when others have to do it out of necessity? Shoplifting due to hunger increased during the pandemic, and it’s hard to criticize people who steal so they can put food on the table. What’s a semi-frequent thrill for some is a fact of life for many, and a means of entertainment doesn’t share equal weight to means of survival. One’s economic status and race affect how accessible shoplifting is. Depending on the color of the person’s hands peeling back the packaging of the toy that January night, the consequences could range from life-altering to a forgotten memory. Although an isolated act of theft from corporations does not necessarily affect any individual, in particular, does stealing wrongly take advantage of a justice system that’s overbearing on some people and too passive on others? Are the desires to bring back power to the common people served by ethical stealing if not all people can participate? As one considers the justifications of what they’re stealing from, it’s worth considering their own identity, and if they are shifting the societal power dynamic at all.

The phrase “there is no ethical consumption under capitalism” gets thrown around a lot on the University of Michigan’s campus, but it’s not too clear what this means for theft. Everyone has different comfort lines, and the gradient of what’s honorable isn’t linear. Rather, this invisible boundary can be twisted and molded to whatever shape of justification one might like — including the want for a collectible plush egg. To be clear: theft is very much illegal, but it also takes creativity, courage, and gusto and can provide new social and philosophical realms for people to explore. In a system that undervalues the arts and emphasizes infatuation with the stock market, exactly where money and resources should end up is blurred with collective selfishness. So, if you’re buying a card for a friend or getting ingredients to feed someone dinner, why not grab the things for free and get some adrenaline for yourself? The only thing stopping you is your own moral judgment.