What's the plan?

In an impromptu Facebook chat with my buddie today, I said something that surprised me. That's right...I'm surprising myself with my own thoughts.

"My brain is on overload with planning," I told her. "I swear I can't plan one more thing. Although," I thought on it further, "I'm oddly addicted to it."

What is that?
How did that happen?
How did planning become my cigarette...my 11pm bowl of ice cream...my new coach bag every season?

Here's my attempt at an answer.

I think I love planning, because it feels like I'm accomplishing something EVERY TIME I partake. Scheduling a lunch with someone (and I'm referring to physically putting it on my schedule) provides the same kind of satisfaction as actually having the lunch. It's like a sweet mini-hit of successful activity, which I'm learning is something in which I find a great deal of identity.

They say that when a person (hmmm, how do I say this tactfully...nope, can't do it) poops, his or her body releases 0.5% of the glorious chemical concoction we get during an orgasm. No wonder so many people look forward to an activity which is otherwise so obviously repulsive and unfun.

This reminds of my body's response to planning. Each click of the "Create Event" button in my GCalender gets me a little high, like maybe 0.5% of the high I'd get from starting a company, or selling a million records, or getting married. It's like I'm tricking myself into thinking that I'm accomplishing great things, and that really does it for me.

At the same time, it drains me faster than one of those super-suck toilets in department stores. I feel suddenly tired, as if I've already DONE the thing I've actually only made a PLAN to do.

What's funny is, when I mentioned this to my Facebook friend, she agreed whole-heartedly, saying she suffered from the same little mental tick. I think it's safe to assume that a lot of women are in the same tightly wound ship as the two of us.

So what's the cure? How do I stop responding to the siren call that is Outlook, Palm, and the OfficeMax desk calendar beneath the keyboard upon which I now so feverishly type?

I don't have a clue.
I expect knowing is half the battle.
Or maybe like. 0.5% of it.