I should have been writing these words a couple of hours ago. Better yet, a couple of days ago.

Scratch that. Actually, I should have been writing these words months ago when I promised Maroon editorial editor Jessica Burrola I would pen an opinion piece. “I’d be happy to,” I said breezily. “I can’t wait to think of something fun to write about.”

Turns out I could wait. And wait and wait and wait until spring semester was in the home stretch and The Maroon was about to go dark for the summer. Even after I told Jess Monday I finally would make good on my promise, I found dozens of more urgent priorities before this column rose to top of the in-box. Now the deadline clock is clicking, a blank screen is staring me in the face and Maroon Editor-in-Chief Catherine Cotton just called me with a gentle but clear reminder.

You see, I’m a Procrastinator. Make that PRO-crastinator, capital P, emphasis on pro for professional. Always have been and, unless someone comes up with a cure, always will be.

If you’re a student reading this, perhaps you’re feeling an empathetic bond. If you’re re-reading this column to avoid those two final research papers, we can commiserate. But while I can relate, I cannot forgive tardiness.

When I was a student, I tried to self-justify my delay tactics as an element of the creative process. You know, nothing like a deadline barking down your neck to get the synapses sparking.

At Loyola, I’m clearly not alone. Students constantly belly up to the lectern or slink by my office with those pleading doe eyes that say they are juggling too many balls in the air and one is about to drop. I’ve heard all the excuses, from flat tires to a friend’s sick dog, but I must hold the line.

That said, I may privately give chuckle points for creativity. I still can’t get over the time a student told me a paper was late because she found her apartment door open and a $5 bill in the oven and the oven turned to 500 degrees. Well, after frantically calling for help and wondering who tried to torch her place, she learned that an ex-boyfriend “who has keys to our house had dropped the bill in the sink and put it in the oven to dry it off.” I kid not. I don’t have the imagination to make up something like that.

Chronic procrastination may be a bad habit, a growing epidemic in this age of hyperactive multi-tasking but blowing deadlines is a cardinal sin. Chronic procrastinators: you must learn to live with the pain. Being late is not an option.

You get no style points for torturing yourself until the last minute. I remember pushing the envelope way too far in one undergraduate political science class. The only assignment was a single voluminous research paper and I waited until the last week to begin. When I finally sat down with the stack of books I needed to absorb, I realized I was sunk. So I slithered into my professor’s office and requested more time. “I’m a visiting professor,” he said, “and I’m outta here Friday. See you then.”

Gulp. I had one week to pull a king-sized rabbit out of a thimble-sized hat. So I sat at my desk, read the books, took notes, organized an outline and, with 56 hours to go, sat at my electric typewriter and wrote. Two consecutive all-nighters later, I couldn’t focus my eyes long enough read a word I had typed, but I had 40 pages. I released a primal scream, then submitted my paper. The professor barely looked up when I handed it to him.

Unfortunately, that episode didn’t cure my brinksmanship. I suffered through impossibly tight deadlines all the way through graduate school and when it came time to choose a career, I became a daily newspaper reporter. Call me a masochist, but I haven’t missed a deadline in 22 years.

Now if you’ll please excuse me, I have 15 seconds to turn in this story.

Michael Perlstein is a professor in the school of mass communication and can be reached at [email protected].