Every day I want to do more than I possibly can, and, often, the
things I don't get done simply complicate my life even more. I
forget appointments. I lose hours searching for keys, files,
notes, books. I have addresses and phone numbers in several
address books: one electronic, one in the back of my 2005 daily
planner, one in my old Filofax, one in an old Day-Timer, more on a
wedding-invitation list (and I got married eight years ago). There
are more addresses on envelopes from last year's
Christmas cards,
even more in a stack of business cards. A directory of students in
my graduate program has been misplaced. Every time I call my
dentist, I look up the number in the phone book. I do have my
psychiatrist's number memorized. But I've been so busy, I haven't
had time to call him.
Thus overwhelmed, I often retreat into the myth of Gerald, his
business suit stronger than Achilles's armor, his manner efficient
and forbearing, his arm always ready for my coat. Gerald would
simplify my life. He'd call my dentist for me. He'd remind me of
appointments and make sure I pump my gas. He'd handle the pile of
miscellaneous jobs that hovers over my head like the sword of
Damocles.
Suddenly, though, Gerald the idea turned into personal assistant,
the reality. I tried outsourcing my life to a few different Gerald
types - and let's just say I didn't pull it off with Katharine
Hepburn's grace, at least at first. But now that I've had my taste
of Gerald, my life will never be complete without it.
WHERE ART THOU?
Gerald proved an elusive commodity. But once I finally knew the
vaunted Gerald was on the way, I felt the need to prepare. My
behavior was akin to that of a pregnant woman just before birth: I
cleaned out my closet, made lists, shopped, researched.
I thought I was ready.
Linsay Kolar,
Temporary Nanny Manager