Am I the only one who, while still in 2009, was hoping for 2011 so I could see how 2010 turned out?
A whole new year, full of possibilities and pitfalls. It’s like a blank piece of paper, waiting to be written on, and I’m worried about what ink and pen to use. Why does a new year intimidate me so much? It’s really just another day, another revolution around the sun…nothing’s going to change, really.
I’m still going to keep trying to lose weight, gain writing skill, love and be loved. Still…those numbers, those grand 2-0-1-0 how very impressive and new they seem to me, full of starch, all shiny and pressed.
I want to do so much. I’m already feeling like time is getting ahead of me, and it’s just the first day. Is there hope for a neurotic, over-achieving perfectionist? Or am I doomed to a year of constantly trying to beat and outdo myself?
Maybe this year should be about taking it easier, learning how to be gentle with myself…oh, wait…that was last year’s goal.
Eugene Delacroix said, œThe artist who aims at perfection in everything achieves it in nothing, which is all well and good for him to say.
He’s dead.
The man’s accomplished all he’s ever going to AND it’s all dandy for him to say it, because he’s one of the great romantic painters.
It’s not that I want to be perfect, per se. It’s that life is short and I want to do the best, give the best, be the best that is in me to be. This would be perfect, so in a sense, isn’t that perfectionism? And the worst kind since by virtue of being human, I’ll never actually be the best me because some days I’m going to wake up and want nothing more than to spend the day in p.js and eating Miss Vicki’s sweet chile potato chips.
