There's a pair of skis leaning in my entryway. Classic skis. With klister oozing down the entire length by now, I imagine. I try not to look at them. I try not to see them. I know for a fact that I would feel better about life if I took ten minutes and took them into the garage and cleaned them and put them away. It's been on my to-do list for, well, months now. The longer I wait the more the klister petrifies into unmanageable amber. Furthermore it's right by a coat hook so every time I hang up my sweatshirt I have the take extra care to keep the sleeves from swaying into contact with the kick zone.

And for some reason I don't strike people as a procrastinator.