I know lots of people say this and it’s totally cliche, but where did 2011 go?
Seriously, it’s insane that it’s almost 2012. Forgive me if I wax nostalgic for the next couple of days.
Shouldn’t we all be jetting around in hovercars and jetpacks by now? That’s what the Weekly Reader told me in 1988.
When I was 8, the year 2000-anything seemed impossible. I suppose it’s true that everything is relative. I certainly would never have put myself where I am, in thinking about the future.
Chalk it up to divine plan or whatever you want, but it’s strange the way things work out…and whether it sounds dorky or not, it’s exciting to see what happens next.
As for resolutions? I make them every year. More often than not I lose steam in a couple of weeks, but I always resolve. This year isn’t any different – well, maybe a little.
This year I’m not resolving to lose weight or keep the house spotless (sorry, family). I’ve done those or some variation thereof every year since I was 15.
But not this year. For 2012 I simply resolve to be diligent about being happy. To do whatever needs to be done in order to make my life good and full. To keep my family happy and whole, to love my life from day to day, and to be able to come back this time next year and say with honesty that I kept my resolutions to the best of my ability and that my life is better for it.
I don’t get many comments…but if you’re reading, tell me what you want out of 2012. Really. I’d love to hear.
Use these two metaphors in a poem: “an inch of scorn” and “a cradle of beliefs”
It was never easy being the one who was different. Never a sigh out of place but a gut filled with longing Somewhere I knew there would answers abound But I was behind. Blind. Out of touch. There were things to say Bursting to be born from my thoughts But they wouldn’t have listened. They would have read their preferred reaction In their leather bound books of exclusion, nestling back into the cradle of their belief Assured that they would come out the winners.
And where it hurt me before, Shattered the shell I’d constructed Left open and raw, Now it was healing. Replacing the ache for approval, I look down and sideways, Never allowing one Within an inch of my scorn.
There could be another way, Soothing and warm, Buttered over with forgiveness and acceptance But we seem to prefer ice Sharp words and looks And separating the different From the different In another way.
I was looking around the Internet the other day, checking some old bookmarks and reading like I hadn’t done for a while.
In my perusal, I came across a blog from a girl I used to know, at http://zazazu.wordpress.com
She stopped liking me because I was the weird ex-wife, and because Josh said mean things about Twilight because he knew it annoyed her. She and I were a lot alike and I probably wouldn’t have liked me either.
Anyway, she has fun ideas sometimes, and one of them that I’ve been known to share is a love of lists. Except that hers are usually useful I’m sure and mine are not much other than a time suck – like 6,000 things about me or embarrassing fact #392.
So, I’ve decided to make a list like one I found on her aforementioned blog, and thus I present:
the things I want to do before I’m 35 kind of a before-the-bucket bucket list
Make a blanket. Knitted, crocheted, woven. Some sort of blanket. And a normal person sized blanket, not some damn copout baby blanket.
Write the book (at least a rough draft) I’ve dreamed of writing for 25 years. First, though, I should probably decide what said book will be about.
Run some sort of official race. Participate. Who gives two frackity farts about competing, I just want to finish. Without dying or wanting to die.
Get another tattoo.
Learn to sew, and do it.
Make an outfit using said sewing skills.
Have a home office, even if I have to share.
Camp for more than two days. I’ve never done that.
Make and decorate a cake. For real decorated, with…decorations.
Be paid for writing. In some form. Ad copy, captions, articles…whatever. Just something.
Freewrite for 3 minutes on this cliche: “ice water in her veins.”
Ice water? That makes no sense. No one could live on ice water blood. I realize it’s not literal. Realism. Whatever. This IS a cliche. I’ve heard that so many times. Not about me, I don’t think anyone knows me well enough to think that. Maybe my husband, but if he thought I was ice water queen bitch wouldn’t I know that by now? I have warmth. I totally do. I just can’t stand to mollycoddle the masses. How’s that for a phrase, “mollycoddle the masses?” holy shit, sometimes I’m awesome. Except times like just then when I misspell awesome four times in a row. I’ve missed free writing, I haven’t done this in years. YEARS. So much has changed, lately. It’s sucked, but that’s how it goes I guess. When you’re stupid and don’t think. Actually, actually THAT situation is one I guess that would qualify my veins as ice water. But whatever. Everyone makes mistakes, or at least thats what i have to tell myself. My apologies are made. Why am I even talking about this? I’m so lucky. Someone with ice water blood wouldn’t even realize that, right? I mean, I always pictured someone with ice water in their veins (or someone that would fit that description) would have entitlement issues and be all snooty. And I am totally not. Entitled, that is. Sometimes I’m sure I seem snooty but that’s just because sometimes I don’t talk because I’m scared of Michael Scotting myself into some shameful situation. I say sometimes a LOT, wow.
Anyway so my point is I do NOT have ice water in my veins. I’ve just realized no one was saying that I was the one with the ice water. I suppose that the fact that I automatically took that to mean myself says something substantial about the way I perceive myself, or the way I think others perceive me.
I’ve always just wanted people to like me and I want to simultaneously not care if they like me or not. I would make a horrible politician.