“Lazy” is a lazy word
When someone tells me they’re lazy, I wonder what they’re avoiding, what they’re hoping I will avoid with them. To my mind, “lazy” is a word people use to stop thought, to prevent us from engaging with the not-wanting-to-do, or with the what-I-really-want-to-do, that “lazy” obscures.
“Lazy” purports to explain the not-doing, but it does so without even trying to touch what’s underneath. You say you’re lazy about exercising, about applying for jobs, about calling your mother, about finishing your novel. But do you really want to do those things? Do you want to have done them? Do you want to be a person who does them? Those are three very different desires.
What are you protecting yourself from by not acting? What would happen if you did the thing you’re not doing? What would you lose? What would you risk? What competing desires or beliefs might be stronger than the one (you think) you’re talking about?
Maybe you’re not “lazy” about the gym. Maybe you’re terrified of being seen, of taking up space, of wanting something for yourself? Or maybe you just hate working out!
Maybe you’re not “lazy” about applying for jobs. Maybe you’re convinced you’ll fail, or worse, succeed and still feel empty. Or, have to work hard, or harder! Or, worst of all, maybe you’ll get that job, and then fail at it!
Maybe you’re not “lazy” about writing. Maybe finishing that essay, or story, or novel, means facing judgment, or discovering the fantasy was better than the reality.
“Lazy” often shuts down curiosity, acting as a diagnosis masquerading as insight. It lets you off the hook and condemns you, all at once.
When you say you’re lazy, what are you really saying? What does your “laziness” protect you from? What does it cost you? What would it mean to give it up?
