Last week, I realized that I was really close to matching, and possibly surpassing, the number of posts I wrote last year. I think I had about eight left to tie, nine to go for the win. Pretty achievable considering how many days were left in the year. Plus, I knew one of the posts was going to be a gimme because it would be the photo challenge for January.
And then, the Christmas reached out and punched me in the face. In the days leading up to Christmas, I bought groceries, I wrapped presents. I bought more groceries, I wrapped more presents. I prepped Christmas dinner while running multiple loads of laundry. I roller set M and C’s hair while playing peek-a-blocks with V and trying to clear a constant tickle from my throat. I did two photos shoots (yay!), addressed and mailed a dozen more cards, wrangled a Z pack from my GP to stave off the impending flu and then face planted on the couch December 24th. The 25th came in, gut checked me, and leaving me with tinsel in my hair, wrapping paper stuck to my shoe, and peppermint on my breath. I didn’t write word one, let alone squeeze out multiple posts.
Now it’s the 27th and I’m like, “Meh, there’s always next year.”
Ahhh, next year.
A mere five days away and we will all be bombarded with words of inspiration, hope, motivation and change. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter — all social media outlets will spew out memes and twee-grams of goals, work-out plans, promises to love oneself and one another.
Yes, I’m a big ol’ cynic. I have tried in years past to set goals for myself in the never-ending quest for self perfection. I’ve vowed to be more patient, to be more kind to myself, to work out more, and to eat less. I’ve made motivational boards, actual pin-boards in the pre-Pinterest days, of things that I wanted to achieve or possess. I’ve got so many bucket lists, you’d think I’ve got nine lives.
Three years ago, as I was about to lace up my kicks for another run around the ol’ hamster wheel of unrealistic goals, I decided that I simply wouldn’t do it. I got tired of the whole “New-Year-New-Me” mentality. I’d tried it. New Year’s like a fresh start bonanza, but I’ve flamed out spectacularly year after year. And sadly, my goals weren’t even that far reaching.
New Year’s Resolutions of Years Past:
- Remember to floss.
- Remember to leave the floss out so that you will remember to floss.
- Eat less red meat.
- Only eat red meat on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
- Eat less dessert.
- Only eat dessert if you’re willing to share it with the children.
- It’s okay if the children have their own dessert several times a week.
- Write at least three times a week.
- Get off Facebook (for reals this time).
- Be more patient, especially with yourself. And the children. And the Hubs. And humanity in general. You don’t know what battles someone is fighting.
Crash and burn. I’m done with self-improvement. It’s all about maintaining the status quo. My expectations of other people, of things, of life in general, are too high. I expect more from others because I am willing to do that much for them. So, how do you solve a problem like that? Well, if I keep the bar where it was last year (low, low, low), I won’t be disappointed if I don’t honor my resolutions. In other words, I’m resolving to keep it real. I’m going to try not to make things worse and if in the process I end up bettering myself, well, Hilary with One L for the Win.
So, here’s to keeping the expectations around knee level. And who knows, maybe in the next few days, I’ll have revised the whole thing and resolved to be less cynical.
That’s setting the bar kind of high, though.