Now that the buzz of the champagne has worn off (kidding: the bubbly’s in my fridge on the reg) and our collective hope for a better future has faded once more, I figured it was time to start thinking about my New Year’s resolutions.
The ones I might actually accomplish.
Because don’t fool yourself: The resolutions you make in December are delusions sparked by mixing a year’s worth of disillusionment with eight slices of bundt cake and four moose-head glasses of Aunt Sally’s spiked nog. They’re never going to happen.
Instead of pipe dreams, why not sit back for a few days and let the euphoria of buying that new calendar wear off. Then you can think clearly about what you can accomplish in the upcoming year.
Here is the list of aims I have arrived at. May the Force be with me.
I had my first experience with fostering a dog over Thanksgiving. Lacey was an angel with a gentle spirit and the backside of brood sow. My Snoopy is very much like me and very much used to being mostly an only child. Sharing is caring, and he’s not good at either.
But not only did we give Lacey a nice temporary home for Thanksgiving (she’s since been adopted!), she taught us a few lessons: in flexibility, how to bull-rush your way anywhere and, mostly, in the benefits of being kind.
Snoopy and I felt good doing good. And we hope to do more of it, or, more accurately, make it more fully a part of day-to-day life. And maybe in the future, the laces on my houseshoes will survive the ordeal. So, in a week, if I haven’t turned in the library volunteer application that’s been collecting dust on my table or taken the mound of donations in my closet to Goodwill, someone publicly shame me.
Innovate, or The Great Chipotle Caper
If I’ve discovered one thing during my first few years in the workforce, it’s the sensation of your brain oozing out of your ears.
When I crawl home to my lair at the end of each day, I feel worn or dulled. I’ve been ON for 8 to 9 hours, and now I want to turn OFF. So I sit and I vegetate and I look up and I’ve watched all four seasons of Dinosaurs. (Newsflash: There were four seasons of Dinosaurs!)
This is not healthy. I am a person with ideas, or once was and can be again. It is time to act, and to do so, it makes sense to start with the problems that are staring you in the face. Which brings me to Chipotle.
I am what you’d call a frequent flier at Chipotle — a veritable VIP of its fine build-your-own wares. (Attention, Corporate, the Archer Road establishment in Gainesville, Florida, is my Cheers bar and they always have my clementine Izze waiting for me at the register, so promotions may be in order.)
That said, Corporate, we need to have a talk about cheese. Namely, its placement in the assembly line, an astonishingly efficient — if, as you’ll see, slightly flawed — process that, I’ll grant you, Henry Ford would have given his left lug nut for.
For the pagans among you, the manufacturing order at Chipotle goes something like this, from left to right:
Rice –> Beans –> Meats –> Salsas –> Sour cream & corn –> CHEESE –> Dat guac –> Lettuce
The ingredients run from the essential hot base to the cold toppings, and reasonably so. But there seems not to have been enough consideration about the place of heat-affected ingredients: namely cheese. When you layer on cheese on top of your salsas and sour cream and corn, it cannot fully make contact with the piping hot beans and sustainably raised meats. It cannot melt. You are missing out on mouth pleasure. Whereas if you’d just move the cheese ahead of pico de gallo, it might stand a fighting chance of bonding with your barbacoa and creating a more perfect bowl.
I said last year was the year of the YOLO, because the long-awaited trip to New Zealand finally happened. But my resolve petered out by the end of the year, and all I could muster were tiny out-of-character moments, like somberly performing the theme to Fresh Prince at karaoke. That’s how little stamina I had for that YOLO life.
Well not this year, damn it. I’m going to live. I’m going to do things that excite me even when the rest of the world scratches its collective head. I’m going to wear what I want. I’m going to throw raging parties. I’m going to sign up for the GRE. I’m going to try to suck less at arts and crafts.
To be honest, I’ve already bought a new bedspread. So how hard could the rest of living dangerously be?
This may sound rich from someone with a journalism degree, a personal blog and a blogging side gig, but I don’t write enough — nonfiction and fiction, personal and professional. I miss the days when I churned out long feature stories weekly (and it doesn’t help that every day I read some of the best feature stories around for a living); I aim to weasel my way back to doing that this year, somehow. Of course, that tends to involve more brainstorming, and for that, see earlier entry on brain oozing from ears.
Oh, and my novel? Let’s not speak of it, or the epic failure of motivation that was NaNoWriMo. I’ll just let my submission to the “Worst Sentence You Wrote Today” forum speak for itself: “Their daughter had the natural grace of a dog on its back in one of the sofa’s valleys.” That’s not even to speak of the abandoned short-story-ideas file on my desktop.
Any and all ideas on how to make time to let the creative juices flow are appreciated. 2015 has to be the year of the pen, because I’ve already ruled out all other creative outlets, like doodling, as viable.
In addition to writing for work and pleasure, I’ve become incredibly lazy about keeping up with my loved ones, largely because Facebook messaging is Sisyphean torment. It’s a chore, when communicating with your dearest friends should be a joy and a privilege.
So, folks, be my pen pal. Let’s bring back the art of letter-writing, the personal, deliberate, thoughtful act of informing others of your goings-on and learning of theirs. Plus, it gives me the chance to use these puppies.
You’d think this wouldn’t need to be an item on an agenda, wouldn’t you? Tell that to Big Internet — and apparently Big Science. A cursory search for “happiness” on HuffPo turns up 604,000 results, including “This Is What Happiness Looks Like, According to Scientists,” “20 Ways to Choose Happiness,” “This Is Scientific Proof That Happiness is Choice” and “This Is the Mathematical Formula for Happiness.”
Shoot, happiness requires math and science? It’s remarkable I’m not the cover image on a Maxine greeting card.
You really would think it wouldn’t take a listicle to remind you to be happy. It should come naturally, without work, without a degree, without much in the way of resistance. Of course, it doesn’t. Happiness can be hard to bottle, and no matter how much you manage to suckle from the teat of Life, you can never get enough.
But it doesn’t mean we should stop trying. This year, I’m setting out to acquire some happiness any which I can, whether it’s finally buying the glow-in-the-dark stars for my bedroom ceiling that I never got as a child, or learning something — the banjo! ceramics! ancient Mayan! how to end a post! — or not reading the comments section on any article on any website ever, ever again.
Let’s all be nice in 2015. You do you, and I’ll do me, and everything will be beautiful, and nothing will hurt.