Master Plans Are for Losers: Just Let it Be

The D.A.R.E. program at school had prepared me for just these kinds of situations. None of the skits in class, however, taught me what to do with this type of pressure: the kind coming from my own parents.

I know, I know. It sounds upsetting. But understand they were just doing the best that they knew how. That's why they asked me to do it. That's why they asked me to ... "plan ahead."

My whole life I've been a day late and a dollar short, and this is just the way it must be.

My friends jokingly say that I'll probably be late for my own funeral. This is, of course, a logical impossibility -- but if they die first, I'll probably be late for theirs.

Do I want things to be this way? Of course not. At this very moment I'm skipping classes that I probably need to be attending because I waited until the last minute to start writing this week's column.

What people don't understand is that procrastination is a disease, like tuberculosis or being left-handed. That's why all the pressure from my parents to "plan ahead" and "manage my time" when I was younger was so difficult.

I know that many of you reading this column suffer from the same terrible affliction. I'm here to tell you that you don't need to give in to social pressure and try to change who you are. My condition has caused a few mishaps along the way, but that just adds spice to life.

One such mishap occurred recently when I tried to help my roommate propose to his girlfriend. He wanted to propose at the "kissing bench" under the Davie Poplar.

My job was to tear off the petals from a bouquet of flowers he had given me and scatter them about the bench. This was to be done by 7:30 p.m., when they were to arrive after dinner.

So I went and sat down on the bench with my jumbo bag of Wavy Lays, thinking my friend would call my cell phone when he left the restaurant. Then I would have plenty of time to scatter the petals. No need to be in a hurry, I thought.

When it got to be 7:50, I was talking on my cell phone when I looked up, petrified to see two figures that resembled my friend and his girlfriend. Clueless as to what to do, I stood up with flowers in hand and walked past them without saying a word.

My friend's girlfriend was confused. "What's Ben doing here?" she asked. I said nothing. All that was left on the bench was a single petal I had taken off for practice and my bag of Wavy Lays.

I then went back to our apartment and dropped the post-proposal gourmet dessert on the kitchen floor, but that's another story.

The point is, I screwed up their engagement, but it's not my fault. I have a condition.

Other complications resulting from my condition include not having a job, a r