What can I say? I’m flaky. I admit it. I’m a serial flake. I write one post for my blog and then admire it for four months. Or, more likely, I completely forget about a project until someone I bragged about said project to asks me four months later how said said project is going. Cue charming laugh and finger-flutter that sounded and looked much less like a wounded walrus in my head.
Basically, I am easily overwhelmed (insert “you don’t say!?” Nick Cage meme). Not that the invisible people reading this care, but I wrote my first post (titled “What the Hell?”) about four months ago in a fit of creativity most likely spurred on by my annual reading of Nora Ephron’s “I Feel Bad About My Neck”. That woman makes me want to pen my life story in an off-the-road diner with Harry Connick Jr. and Meg Ryan sharing my booth.
However, once my writing-bender subsided and Monday came around, so did school and work and other writing responsibilities. This continued on for four months, I finished Fall semester, and I took a nine hour bus ride back home. A girl puked in the bathroom. It was not fun.
Given the rules associated with winter break, my days have consisted of sweatpants, stale Christmas cookies, and, of course, the pushing-away of reality. As I have nary a romantic or employment prospect, I push-away with rigor. However, Spring semester starts in less than two weeks, and as my mother very enthusiastically pointed out to me, this means that reality will be starting up once again. And this blog is part of my reality.
This brings me to the New Year. As I sat on the couch shoving skittles into my face at approximately 11:57 New Year’s Eve, I realized that something in my life had to change. My twin sister was in the kitchen making tater tots. My parents, adorned with sparkly New Year’s headdresses, were slumped, fast asleep, on each side of me. Mariah Carey was pretending she had everything under control in Times Square. The DVR clock changed to 11:58, and in that moment I decided that this year would be different.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t be cliche, but when it’s New Year’s and you’re typing this for your blog, that’s hard to avoid. Four months ago, I thought I had found the one thing that I wouldn’t flake out on. I was wrong. But if I’ve learned anything in 2016, it’s that the cliche is true: life is short. I can’t afford to flake out on something I love so much.
Even if no one ever reads this, that’s okay. (I’m going to look back at this and cringe at the schmaltzy-ness, anyway). There’s no denying that 2016 was a particularly bad year in terms of my own faith in humanity (and in America, but I won’t bring a certain orange elephant into the room). The fact is, sitting on my couch with my snoring parents and the smell of burning tater tots wafting through the house, I realized that the thing I want and need the most is the satisfaction accompanied with completing something I care about. I care about writing. So here we go.
Hopefully, this won’t end with another four months of nothing. If I absolutely HAVE to have one, (and according to my perceptive little sister, I really, really do,) I suppose my New Year’s Resolution for 2017 is to live a generally healthier existence, physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, and, of course, blog-ally. Duh.
So, please forgive me for the cliches and the schmaltzy-ness, and I hope that 2017 brings only humor and happiness to all my invisible readers (okay, and to the visible non-readers, too). May Mariah Carey find her voice, may Betty White hang on for another year, may Nora Ephron never be forgotten, and may we all continue to look like wounded walruses.
Oh, and may I figure out what to do with the pathetic name of this blog. I SWEAR, I thought of it BEFORE that meme was a thing. Sheesh.