Confessions of an Unrepentant Sloth

This is embarrassing to admit, but I feel as if I’m the only person in Los Angeles who isn’t busy. It’s not that I lack activities--after all, I have a 3-year-old son, a husband, a career and a yearlong remodeling project meandering toward completion. Even so, I continually find myself on the losing end of busier-than-thou one-upmanship.

One Saturday last spring my son’s godfather called. He had a Christmas present for Nicholas and wanted to coordinate a drop-off time. “I realize it’s a little late,” said Godfather, “but I’ve been busy.”

Not to sound judgmental, but he lives a mile away, doesn’t have a 9-to-midnight job and wasn’t in the midst of a major life crisis.

“Come on over,” I said, violating the first commandment of modern society: Thou Shalt Not Engage in Spontaneous Activity (lest you reveal how unimportant you are).

Immediately--almost reflexively--Godfather reeled off the many entries on his To Do list. None were on the level of taking a sick cat to the vet or waiting for his agent to call and say that Miramax had optioned his latest script. But in Los Angeles, picking up your dry cleaning or getting your hair cut --or the ultimate sacred cow, going to the gym--takes precedence over hanging out with friends and neighbors. Godfather had to check his calendar, his wife’s, her son’s and their respective assistants’. Luckily their three dogs weren’t in day care (don’t laugh, many dogs are) or we’d have had to factor in their schedules, too.

If it weren’t for institutionalized meet-and-greet spots such as the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, many people would never connect with acquaintances who live across the street. Granted, the pressures of modern society are overwhelming--what with harried two-career couples caring for aging parents, finding a parking space for the sports-utility vehicle and worrying that their child won’t get into a decent preschool if he’s not signed up by age 2. Still, some people use busyness to avoid interpersonal interaction.

“I’m going to talk fast because I’m at a pay phone and I only have three minutes,” said Jerry Jellison, a psychology professor at USC, whom I called for a professional explanation. “There’s almost a sense that over-involvement has become a status symbol. If you have a lot of involvements, then you’re important. You’re involved with the right things. If you have time for other people, then you must not have much to do.”

Call me old-fashioned. I want time to lunch with friends and kibitz with neighbors. Perhaps I was unduly influenced by Mary and Rhoda, but I met two of my dearest friends because they lived next door. Perhaps the only advantage of being a freelance writer is that I create my own schedule. I require huge chunks of uncommitted time to write and, if truth be told, to avoid writing. Externally I look like a slouch, but I swear that internally I’m on a tighter schedule than the producer with six assistants who keeps you waiting (and doesn’t validate your parking) and begs your sympathy with a pathetic story about how he hasn’t had time to eat.

For the overcommitted, any excuse will do. Take the night I tried to talk to my husband, Duke, about a remodeling crisis. Duke was online and refused to look up from his computer. I leaned over to see what he was writing, thinking perhaps it was some important office communication. Instead, I discovered that my beloved was trying to stump other players in a virtual game by posting quotations from the 14th century Arab historian Ibn Khaldun.

“Sign off now,” I said.

“I can’t,” Duke said, “They’re waiting for my posts.”

My sister Laurie said, “Being busy is being rude without being rude. It’s the perfect blowoff. And it’s never been easier to fake busy because there are so many labor-saving devices that get you off the hook. Call-waiting is busyness personified. If you don’t want to talk to someone, it’s a cinch to say, ‘Sorry, there’s another call coming in.’ Or else you could be getting a fax.”

As we were talking, my sister was fiddling with her latest beeper, which allows her to send and receive e-mail--a busyness maker so officiously time-monopolizing that I shudder to think what will happen when it catches on. “It’s wonderful,” Laurie said. “I don’t have to tote my big computer. I don’t have to pay attention to whom I’m with.”

The problem with these gadgets is that they force sloths like me to be busy, too. I’ve carried a cell phone for years, but I’d seldom turned it on or given out the number. Then Nicky came along and I wanted to be accessible. Big mistake. Not long ago, I was being wheeled out of the hospital after having minor surgery when I heard the trill of my StarTAC. It was our architect-builder. Let’s call him Bo.

“Do you want the header on the kitchen door raised six inches?” he asked.

“Not now,” I said. “I just had surgery.”

“The drywall guy will be here in an hour. He’s on a tight schedule. I need an answer.”

Bo always wants an answer ASAP. (Why our house is five months behind schedule is a mystery to me.) I thought surgery trumped the drywall guy for importance, so I pushed “End,” figuring I could always blame AirTouch. Undaunted, Bo dialed my husband’s beeper.

Occasionally, I come out ahead. Once I was booked to do a radio show and had to leave home at 8 a.m. I had informed my husband of this at least a week in advance, and Duke had promised to stay with Nicholas until our baby-sitter, the saintly Lupe, arrived at 8:30. But right before I was to leave, Duke suddenly remembered a breakfast date with a colleague. “I’ve got to run,” he announced.

“Impossible,” I said. “I’ve got to leave.”

“But someone is waiting for me.”

“Honey,” I said, “a satellite is waiting for me.”

It was a rare victory. Very rare.

Just the other day, the saintly Lupe informed me that I must hire someone to clean because she was too busy playing volleyball with Nicholas. I was taken aback since it is not a big apartment, and Nicholas just started preschool, leaving him considerably less court time. “Le gusta volleyball a Nicholas,” Lupe said reproachfully. “He likes volleyball.”

For a moment, I felt guilty because I was hindering my son’s quest to become Karch Kiraly. Then Lupe said something that my brain translated into English as, “I’d rather play volleyball than clean your kitchen.” Would that my agent would tell my publisher that I’d rather go to Paris than finish my book, I thought. But I promised Lupe I’d consider her request. Without Lupe, I’d be so busy I’d lose my mind.

The sun was setting over the marina. Eager to enjoy the moment, I turned off my computer and went into my son’s room. He was patiently lining up his fleet of metal cars. That day he had chosen his pickups.

“Nicholas,” I said, “let’s go for a walk.”

“Don’t wanna walk, Mama,” he wailed, “I’m busy.”

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Margo Kaufman died on March 31 from breast cancer. Her warm, smart humor had regularly graced this magazine’s pages since 1988. She will be missed by her editors and, no doubt, by readers.