It may not come as a surprise, but I am definitely lame enough to make New Years resolutions. (I am realizing, belatedly, that I will be posting this directly above the “Best of” list, a sure indicator that I both think of, and geek out over, the end of a year.) My resolution this year was to be more productive, especially in my writing, but also in my overall lifestyle. And until today, I was doing alright.
I won’t jump out onto any limbs here and say that I was doing awesomely but I was doing alright. I was getting things done, waking up on time, and writing my required 1000 words a day. I was even endeavoring to read about grammar in the evenings. I wasn’t proud of myself, mainly because no one should be proud of themselves for achieving the basic thresholds of productivity, but I also didn’t want to punch myself in the face. And then I woke up this morning.
This morning I got out of bed, felt no usual fatigue or hunger and sat down at my computer with good intentions and the remainder of the burrito that I had for dinner last night. But despite my aforementioned good intentions, the words wouldn’t come out properly. This can be attributed in part to my lack of forethought; I like to know what I am going to write about the night before so that I can give it a good subconscious mulling over. But once I had settled on a mildly promising topic I couldn’t get more than 500 words down. My brain felt absolutely gluey and I conceded that today would be the day that I felt less-than-dandy about the results of my resolution. The words came slowly; the came sentences incompletely, and the corrections seemed insurmountable.
I know that these problems are always problems of perspective and not actually insurmountable, but it’s still a substantial drag. And like most drags (as in outmoded slang for “lame” not dressing in drag), this one stresses me out. Not accomplishing enough during the week stresses me out because without doing so I do not feel entitled to my weekend, and lacking that feeling of entitlement, I can’t relax outside of the burning glare of my own…um…glare. And stress makes me worry that I will soon get grey hair. (Really: I almost thought that I saw some the other day. Thankfully it was discovered to be stray sour cream.)
Moving away from melodramatic exclamations and toward our usual fare of uninteresting personal tidbits, I was considering whether I should write this post as a sort of grateful farewell to the holidays, which to my dismay having rather taken center stage around here lately, for yet another year. Of course I decided against that in my eagerness to air my discomfort regarding my New Years resolution, but it was a strong contender.
I suppose it makes me finally a full-fledged adult to admit that the holidays are stressful and not just a blur of fun and sticky peppermint fingers. But now they are over and we can retire our company smiles, our tinsel, and our special seasonal ulcers for another year.
As a note of general interest, I have written 532 words in the above paragraphs, only slight more than I would have needed to write earlier in order to fulfill my dream of being a semi-productive member of society. What, I repeat, a g.d. drag.
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