After I made the morning coffee, after I read the morning paper, after I listened to my favorite Sunday-morning radio shows, and after I argued with myself about it for at least fifteen minutes, I finally forced myself to get off the sofa, strip down to my shorts and clean up the bathroom. It wasn’t something I wanted to do; it was, in fact, something I desperately wanted to put off for another day, but if I did that I knew that ‘another day’ would be next Saturday or Sunday at the earliest, because that’s the kind of procrastinator I am. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I didn’t want that hanging over my head all week long, because I’ve had that particular sword hanging over my head more than once before. Damocles was right; it’s no fun. Not that I believe that answering the question of whether or not to clean a bathroom is anywhere near as stressful a position to be in as the one Damocles got himself into, but if I’m going to use the sword metaphor, I’m going to go all the way.