WHY MY TO-DO LIST IS MORE FICTION THAN REALITY

Ah, the to-do list. That sacred scroll of intentions, half-baked dreams, and delusions of productivity. Every Sunday evening, armed with a fresh pen and an unhealthy level of optimism, I sit down to craft my week’s masterpiece: the ultimate to-do list. (Not really. But I think about it. And that counts for something.)

It’s never just a list; it’s a novel—a Choose Your Own Adventure for the delusional overachiever.

Take this week, for example. Here’s a taste of my top-tier fantasy zone:

Bake a croquembouche for absolutely no reason. Because nothing screams ‘I’ve got my life together’ like building a towering pyramid of cream-filled pastry puffs and gluing them together with homemade, scalding-hot caramel. (Fun fact: you can make carame by simmering an unopened can of sweetened condensed milk for three hours. Is this safe? Probably not. Is it on my list? Absolutely.)

Visit Churchill, Manitoba, to kiss a polar bear on the nose. It always seems like my Best Idea Ever at 1:30 a.m. when I’m wide awake, angst-ridden by the vast majority of my life’s poor decisions. ‘You know what I REALLY need? Polar bear noses. That’ll fix everything.’

Train Tucker to bring me stuff (or to do anything). He’s a goldendoodle. But I refuse to give up on the dream of a dog made-to-order-and-delivered sandwich. Current progress: he stares at me, and says, ‘Why won’t you let me out? Why won’t you feed me? Why don’t you love me? It’s the only thing in my life that matters. Unlike whatever that is you’re doing—seriously, it looks pointless.’

Write a heartfelt thank-you note to the beach. ‘Dear beach, I love you. Thank you for transforming my negative, chaotic energy into unfiltered tranquility. I don’t know how you do it, but one minute I’m a hot mess, and the next, I’m lying in your sand like a comatose starfish. You’re not just a vacation destination; you’re my official therapist. So, thanks for always being there, even if you occasionally

sneak sand into places sand has no business being.’ Sentiment = genuine. Execution = still pending, finding the beach’s official address.

Invent a new dance called ‘The Roundabout Shuffle’. Inspired by my town’s new traffic circle, it involves a lot of spinning in place, flailing dramatically, and yielding to imaginary dancers on your left.

Sweeping TikTok stardom is inevitable. Unfortunately, I can’t dance. Organize the spice rack alphabetically… in Latin. Why stop at ‘cinnamon’ when I can search endlessly for ‘Cinnamomum verum’? Invent a buyer’s remorse app. This app would prohibit me from ordering anything from Amazon unless, of course, it’s stuff ‘I need’, which I would qualify as anything I order on Amazon, thus nullifying

the app’s usefulness.

Meditate for thirty minutes every day. This sounds wholesome in theory but just results in me trying to Zen my way out of meditating. Finally read War and Peace. Or at least carry it around in public. Reality check: I’ve been stuck on the title page since 1985.

And so, as my weeks in recovery roll on, my imaginary to-do list morphs from a hopeful road map into a tragic comedy. In reality, I frantically scribble realistic goals like:

Drink water

Nap

Don’t trip over the dogs

MiraLAX!

The list is covered in coffee rings, cookie crumbs, half-finished tasks and the faint outline of my forehead from where I’ve face-planted onto the counter.

There’s a little magic in the fiction of it all. Sure, I’ll probably never kiss a polar bear on the nose or train Tucker to do the dishes, but it’s productive to think I might.

Besides, if I ever do invent ‘The Roundabout Shuffle,’ you’ll be the first to know.