I’d not heard it before. It was a new one for me, and I knew right away I was an expert. Procaffeinating. That was the word. Procrastinating while caffeinating. And shouldn’t Webster be all over this? Yes, he should.
If this was a course, then I was the prof. Any number of things, I’d learned, could be put off when one was busily caffeinating. Laundry, dishes, sweeping, typing; all of it could wait while one mustered one’s gumption and found fresh giddyup. Which was found at the bottom, not the top, of the cup.
As a girl with strong language skills, I could see multiple layers of meaning in this one word. Just as I was prolife, I was also procaffeine. “Pro” as in “for.” Two thumbs up, one hundred percent, and a great big yes to the yea.
Mr. Schrock, he knew it, too. It was on a recent family trip that he’d seen the way the wind was blowing, sensed a rising desperation and took the nearest exit. “Oh, good,” read the caption beneath the photo later on. “Now I won’t have to kill anyone. Close call.”
Yes, I was strongly procaffeine. In my lexicon, prolife and procaffeine were closely tied, and so true love took the exit.
It was Little Schrock who threw another new one at me. There I was, getting ready to leave, and here he came, knock-knock-knocking on the bedroom door with one grubby paw. “Wanna see me?” he said, eagerness coloring his voice.
“What’s up?” I said, for one never knows what one will encounter when boys run wild and free in the summer.
“I did a ‘spring clean’ on my clothes,” he chirped altogether cheerfully from his side of the door. “With the sprinkler.”