If I Must . . . .

I didn’t want to do it, but this is totally a cop-out post. Yup. A New Year’s pandering bullshit post. But if I don’t post it, there will be no one to hold me accountable for these promises I’m making to myself. They’re not resolutions–I haven’t made those in ten years and don’t plan to. Resolutions are empty words. Pretty things we tell ourselves to make the end-of-year stress pay off in some way. Resolutions come from guilt. Guilt and I are old pals. It’s been my goal to say goodbye to it and fully focus on what’s in front of my nose, not in my wake.

Damn, I almost sounded smart there for a second. Better fix that before you guys expect more of this sage bullshit in the future.

Anyway, the reason for the post.

Last week during a fit of insanity I made a rough plan of attack for 2015. Because, let’s be honest, 2014 kicked my ass, took my lunch money, and poured soured fat free chocolate milk down the back of my Hello Kitty panties. It wasn’t pretty. Murphy’s law was in full effect. I didn’t do half the things I wanted.

And that’s okay.

My first promise for 2015 is: It’s okay to fuck up. Take a day to regroup–binge watch that new show or craft until your fingertips ache. Sometimes crap rains on your parade. Grab an umbrella, dance around the piles, and look great while doing it.

Second promise: An actual work schedule. This is always the hardest to adhere to. My many jobs have a certain element of unpredictability. Anything creative is subject to what’s going on in my screwy head. There are days when I can sit and edit for clients just fine, but if I try to switch gears and write, it’s a no-go. The words aren’t there. All I can do is try to keep to what’s on the schedule. But instead of visiting my old friend guilt over a scheduled item not working, I need to shift gears to something that *will* work. Keep moving forward.

Third promise: Smell the roses. Or in my case, pet the puppy. Limos is in the house to be my touchstone. My reason to get up from the desk, stretch, and laugh at her goofiness. It’s okay to take me time.

You guys are noticing the pattern, right? This year is the death of guilt. I’m tired of apologizing for being myself. It was something beat into my head once I moved from the country to the city. Literally. My cute quirks, which everyone I grew up with loved, became something feared by others. At one point it was easier to drop my head, apologize, and find a corner to be by myself so I wouldn’t offend or upset anyone.

Maybe they should be upset. New things, strange things you didn’t experience growing up could be the ticket to expanding your mind and putting you on the path to finding what makes *you* happy. I cannot count the number of times a friend suggested music or movies that at first made me sneer, but once I got my head out of my ass, they changed the way I looked at the world and made it so much better. Or better yet, fueled my creative urges.

What’s life without giving into art when she bats her eyelashes and flashes a little thigh?

So in 2015 I’m banning guilt and banging the hell out of creativity. Let me hear one of your promises for the new year.

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2 thoughts on “If I Must . . . .

    1. I haven’t been a fan of resolutions in ages. No one ever follows through. A promise is a different sort of contract with yourself. It broadens the definition. I promised myself I would laugh more and I have. It helps to have an incredibly silly puppy at my side.

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