Only five more days until the new year. The EcoFellow and Sister NoMo came over for taco night this evening. At one point, EcoFellow asked the question that has been asked since 0 B.C.E. rolled over into 1 B.C.E.: "What are your new-year's resolutions."
I had no answer.
And I didn't have the heart to be a party pooper and say how I think new-year's resolutions are a load of crap. I'm so embittered of late, I'm getting to a point where I think making plans or setting goals of any type, length, or achievement are just a load of horse hockey. I mean, who am I kidding with my personal goals and objectives?
And yet, I keep making them.
This past spring, around my 39th birthday, I set what I very wittily referred to as my 40x40 goals: things I wanted to accomplish by my 40th birthday. They were (are) good goals. Things like losing 50 pounds and taking a drawing class and a cake decorating class and finding a better job and figuring out the meaning of life; relatively simple stuff like that.
To date, I've accomplished: ZERO.
I still need to lose 50 pounds. (Only now that it's after the holidays, it's probably more like 55 pounds.)
I haven't finished working through my "Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain" workbook, which my lovely friend Aitch gave to me this summer. Oddly, I have discovered that I'm enjoying photography a great deal and turning out some decent pictures. I suppose that's artistic?
I'm still trying to find a cake decorating class that doesn't have a wait-list that is nine months long.
I just lost a job, but I have a lead into a good job that I'm hoping might pan out. (I'm not saying anything more here, because I don't want to jinx it, thankyouverymuch.)
And, I doubt very much that I'll ever find the meaning of life, but I'm trying to learn to live with the disappointments better than I have been in the past. In other words, I'm learning to lower my expectations.
Hm. Maybe I'm doing better than I initially thought. Not great, mind you, but at least trying.
I wonder, did our ancestors ever feel or have a sense of futility? Or is fatalism a product of the late 20th century?
I've blogged about this subject so often now, I'm starting to sound like a broken record.
Fuck. Let's face it: I am a broken record.
I'm a record with a deep scratch in it that causes the needle to jump and fall back, playing the same notes over and over and over again. Jump. Repeat. Jump. Repeat. Jump. Repeat.
I think it's time to toss out the old record and get a new one. My life needs a new theme song. Any suggestions? The box is now open.
What is it about being stuck?
A friend has recently been posting blog entries from folks who have written about their fears and what they would do if they were free from fear.
Fear is the thing that seems to keep me stuck, which really pisses me off. I'm not pissed that I'm fearful. I'm pissed that I allow myself to be trapped. I choose to be stuck. And that makes me especially angry.
I like to think of myself as fearless, but in point of fact, I think what I think of as fearlessness in myself is really cowardice punctuated by passive-aggressive rejoinders.
Oh, wait. I'm still on that same jumpy, bumpy, wash-rinse-and-repeat record.
I'm stopping. Right now.
I think. Or maybe I'm not.
It's all too scary to contemplate...