Out with the Old, In with the New

At work yesterday, I was browsing Inc. for reading passage ideas when I came across "6 Things Really Productive People Do." (Yes, the title really emphasizes really.) Normally, I would have scrolled right past this—it doesn’t take an expert to come up with gems like “Pick your priorities,” “Celebrate progress,” or “Lay off the Farmville.” But the tagline caught my attention. “Have you noticed that some people just seem to accomplish tons and still appear happy and relaxed?”

“Yes,” I thought. “And it makes me want to punch them in the face.”

New Year’s always brings out this sentiment in me. Even if I it was a good year, I am plagued by thoughts like:

What was I DOING all year?

I am frittering away my time. I am a fritterer.

I sleep too much. Why can’t I be like Hillary Clinton* or Leslie Knope** or those people that sleep like four hours a night and are still high-functioning machines?

Eventually, the year’s worth of self-loathing passes, and I settle into contemplating the year ahead. I’ve loved making New Year’s resolutions since I was a kid. I have a Rubbermaid container full of old journals, and each contains the resolutions I faithfully set every January 1 of my growing-up years.

When I was 9, I vowed to make that boy in Sunday School who kept putting glue in my hair fall in love with me. When I was 11, I decided to become just like Nancy Drew. In high school and college, my resolutions were run-of-the-mill and easily broken: exercise three times a week, pray before bed, eat salad for lunch. As an adult, I’ve been setting the bar quite a bit lower, like in 2011, when I resolved to try yoga one time at some point or other before the year ended.

And then there was last year, when I was hung over on New Year’s Day and felt that aspirations were worthless, as was life itself, and I would never be able to accomplish anything ever again anyway because I was never going to get out of that bed. So, I grumpily snatched my new 2012 planner off the bedside table and scribbled this on the inside of the cover: Either crap or get off the pot.*** I was stuck with that glorious ambition all year.

For the sake of my resolutions and my liver, I acted with more discretion during the wee hours of 2013. I’ve been mulling over goals since then, and I’ve decided to follow that ridiculous article’s advice after all since, so far, doing my own thing hasn’t been that successful.

I am picking new priorities.

1. End each day with gratitude. Before bed, write down (or at least think to myself before passing out) one good thing that happened. – It is a wonderful life, just like Frank Capra taught us, and it’s time to appreciate it more fully.

2. Read more. Watch TV less. – For feeling so superior about not owning a television, I watch an awful lot of TV. To start the year off right, Josh and I will be abstaining from TV and movies next week. Those seven days will feel like 40 days in the wilderness.

I am celebrating progress I’ve made.

The past year was a year of personal growth and trying new things. I . . .

. . . got a tobacco pipe, regularly went to yoga class, tried meditation, discovered the line between drinking and giving myself a hangover, and participated in like, my first real athletic competition ever (Dragon Boat racing).

. . . decided to be transparent with the people I love. With some, this means being open about my faith. With others, it means not hiding the actions that they think are wrong.

. . . acknowledged that I would probably not find the life of a “career woman” fulfilling, and what I really desire to do is write. I figured this out at a church retreat at the end of this summer. We were having a time of small group discussion, and one of the questions was, “If you could do anything and God guaranteed your success, what would you do?” and I instantly thought, “Write a book. [pause] Oh. So I do know what I want to do with my life.” And then everyone else in my group gave spiritual answers. Fail.

. . . realized that I want to adopt a child, maybe even a few. I also want to garden, bake, refinish secondhand furniture, and other housewifey things.

I am laying off the Farmville.

I’ve never actually played Farmville, but the same principle applies to Gilmore Girls. I’ve seen every season four times. And I’m most likely underestimating with that number.

Wishing you and yours a bright, happy, really productive 2013.




*Obviously excluding this blood clot episode
**Yes, I know she’s a fictional character. That doesn’t make her high energy levels any less inspiring/distressing.
***It’s supposed to be metaphorical, you juvenile dolt.

Glide, Twirl

A piece of flash fiction I wrote, inspired by this year's never ending winter (blah).

The subway car emerges from underground, crackling over the track-laid bridge, slipping over the Charles River, which is encased with ice. Native Bostonians don’t take their eyes from their NYT bestsellers to notice the view. But I look through the scratched plastic windows towards the sun setting over the river, my soul slipping down to the banks.

My feet crunch through the week-old snow, which comes up to my thighs. I shove each leg ahead, pushing against the snow, my upper body leaning forward against the chilled wind. My face is red and chapped. My fingers are tingling, the pink woolen fluff of my mittens providing little protection. I fall in once, my arms and face plunging through the crusty snow, and I struggle to right myself, brushing snow out of my eyes with the wool. It stings. I press onward.

The brink of the river meets the edge of the snow in an icy fusion. I stop. I stare into the surface. In 4th grade science, Mrs. Hall said fish could still survive in rivers that had frozen over, residing in the warmer waters near the bottom. I wonder what the fish do during the winter, all alone in the dark. I place my left foot on the ice, my right foot lingering on the snow. I push off the bank. I glide forward, leaving curvy foot trails in the thin snow overlay of the ice. I never learned to ice skate, but ice gliding is easy. Ice gliding – maybe I will pitch that idea to the people at Frog Pond. I go to my tiptoes and twirl on the ice, then glide.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

Glide…twirl.

I extend my arms, elbows curved, hands above my head. I form a V with my feet, heels together, toes wide apart. I pliae. I bend my knees, then push my toes against the tips of my boots, my calf muscles thrusting me upward, away from the ice.

Snap. Crackle. Pop.

The ice encasing bursts, the snow overlay exploding upward into the dimming sunlight. I flail in the water. My fingertips brush the ice but I cannot grip it. I strain for the surface. I kick towards the light. But it does not matter. I glide towards the bottom, gravity pulling me to the depths. I do not fight it. Mrs. Hall was right – it is warmer near the bottom.

The ice shards fuse together again during the cold of the night. The snow settles. I twirl with the fish.