Today it dawns on me that I’ve been procrastinating the same item on my to-do list for over ten years: obtaining my EU passport. My father is from England, you see, making me eligible for one. And while it seems simple enough to fill out an application and pop it in the post, somehow the notion that I might one day want to work in Europe hasn’t thus far been enough to get me off my ass. Nor has the: “What if they change the rules?” factor. To be clear about my deep level of procrastination, I have completed most steps in the process at the following pace:
2001: Printed out an application form.
2003: Made an inquiry to the UK Consulate.
2005: Obtained my long form birth certificate from the Nova Scotia government. Short form was apparently no good.
2006: Asked my father for other necessary documents—his birth certificate and marriage certificate.
2009: Reprinted the out-dated application form.
2011: Filled it out.
The one hurdle currently stopping me from sending the damn thing is taking my passport photos. Seems easy enough, doesn’t it? But WTF my problem is I cannot tell you. Do I secretly never want to have the option to live and work in Europe? Am I somewhere afraid of a potential draft?
The other irony is that since I work as a PA these days, I have recently helped boss man renew, not one, but two passports. One of which was Italian, and let me tell you how quickly things happen at the Italian consulate… I believe they are open a total of 3 hours per week and have one rotary telephone manned by a pissed off old woman who chain smokes and pounds Chianti all day. I have also procured boss man a Nexus pass. Now he never has to wait in a customs line-up again! Yup, I can move mountains for him. For myself, not so much. Of course, getting paid always helps.
I once read that making a public commitment can help with procrastination. So, dear readers, you are now witnesses to my embarrassing level of laziness. I’m hoping shame will serve as motivation. Feel free to berate me at will.
Oh, and thanks for letting me hold onto your birth certificate for six years, Dad. I’ll get it back to you real soon. At least that’s the plan.