I made exactly one Resolution this year: spend less money on delivery Pizza Luce. Not on delivery food in general, or pizza in general, but specifically on delivery Pizza Luce. This has nothing to do with health. This has to do with spending about $150 on Pizza Luce in December alone.
Resolutions need to be that specific to work, I think. Saying “I will lose weight” or “I will get healthy” is too vague for me. “I will not treat this restaurant as my personal kitchen three days a week,” however, seems manageable. I do admire folks who try those other, broader, goals, and I admit I get caught up in it. This is it, I think. This is the month I buckle down and finish all my crafts including the braided rug I started in 1994. But more often than not I come to my senses and amend that goal to “either claim it’s a braided rug for Barbie or give it up. Also you don’t need to DIY floor coverings. You’re an adult with a job.”
If I had one “traditional” New Years goal this year, I guess it would be to write more. Even that is cheating, as I always want to “write more.” About a week ago I thought maybe I’d make a go of it and start writing a blog entry. A few days ago I hadn’t written a word, so I thought maybe I’d search my old writings for ideas/things to plagiarize. And that’s when I realized the internet has changed since I started blogging, and the only way I could access those old things was to change with it. I clicked some things. I downloaded some files. I uploaded some things.
And that is how my old, embarrassing, mostly-about-how-much-I-want-a-nap blog posts wound up imported onto this site. Instead of writing one new entry, I imported about 500, beginning ten years ago. I was halfway through my freshman year of college; I was immersed in a group of girlfriends I still remember fondly, even though we aren’t close anymore. I was away from my small town – albeit in a different small town – for the first time in my life. I was overly fond of commas and parentheticals. And I was pretty sure about four people were reading what I wrote, which is maybe why reading them makes me think not that I should write more, but that I shouldn’t write at all.
Anyway, it all happened. It all seemed important at the time. In the words of my 18-year-old-self, “I don’t know why I keep doing this. I don’t have anything remotely interesting to say so I talk about myself, and no one reads it anyway because it’s uninteresting. And yet…here we go again.”
Well, what were you doing at 18? At least my mom will get a kick out of it.