I’m not big on resolutions. I mean, I have things I have to do. Things I want to do. And for sure things I don’t need to be doing, but I can’t get myself to resolve to do something.
(Perhaps I should resolve to re-write that last paragraph without saying “do” a million times. Sorry about that.)
My mom is pretty big on resolutions. She always asks me what mine are every January, only to be disappointed when I don’t have them typed up and laminated for her. I don’t consider our foray into veganism a resolution, but in order to humor her I’m acting like it is. Lucky for me, my year is only 31 days long, and I’ll have a chicken sandwich in my hand on February 1. Wrapped in bacon, please.
Anywho, one thing she loves to say is “This is going to be your year. I can just feel it.”
Poor woman has been “feeling it” for 23 years now. Poor Mansee has been hitting her head against a wall/counter/couch/etc for 23 years now.
This year I collapsed into my favorite chair and thought, “I don’t want this year to be my year. I want every year to be my year!”
I then declared that statement to be the most profound words I had ever thought.
God, I should write a book.
Get ready 2011 (and 2012, 2013, 2014, etc), you are mine!