Do not open until 2022.

I have an envelope that’s marked with those very words, the sealed contents of which I wrote when I was just fifteen. Maybe sixteen. And then promptly folded up and tucked away, not to be opened again until I turned 40 and felt like being really, really embarrassed as I’m sure I’ll be when I finally read whatever nonsense it is I felt was important enough to write down when I was only a baby. Fifteen sounds so incredibly young. I didn’t know shit back then. Unfortunately, at 32 (WHEN DID THAT HAPPEN) I hardly feel like I’m all that much wiser. [Insert one of those straight-mouthed emoticons here.]

Somethings take work.

There’s nothing like a rough night’s sleep + a long list of excuses to put off writing to really make you put off writing. Writing more wasn’t even a New Year’s resolution, but I’m holding onto the fact that this still could be the Something I do in 2015 that here I am. Writing. And reminding myself why it was exactly that I wanted to write more in the first place. Although “write more” implies that there was some sort of writing taking place and, well, that’s laughable. But then I was talking to my mom whose incredibly awful memory is just one of the many awesome things I inherited from her- along with social ineptitude and a complete lack of patience for stupidity and bad drivers- and we both decided that we should start journaling. Our conversation went something like this: her asking me a question about something that happened recently and me not remembering because neither one of us can remember anything and then both of us agreeing that we should write shit down because then, maybe, we’d remember. (Miracles do happen.) So I decided to start blogging again. Because it’s 2015 and who uses pen and paper anymore? But then I had a terrible night’s sleep and when I got home I found a clean pair of socks which meant I could put off laundry for one more day and I promptly zoned out in front of Modern Family for an hour before I finally kicked my shoes off and reached for my laptop and gave into the tiny, irritating man inside my brain that keeps reminding me that if I write something then that would be every other night since the 1st of the year that I posted something and this could be SOMETHING. Truth is, this is 300 words of nothing. But it’s still something.

And every year a new year begins

Every January the fresh-startedness of a new year overcomes me and I get the overwhelming urge to start something. And every year: failure. And every year I lament the disturbing fact that I can’t seem to finish anything I start. And every year I write a variation of these same exact sentences. And every year every year THE END except it isn’t ’cause, look, Ma! Here I am, once again vowing to do something. Write more. Take pictures. Lose weight. Punch myself in the face. Except not really on that last one (I’m saving that for 20-sixteen). Something is going to happen in 2015. And it’s going to be exciting. And if it’s not exciting? It’s at least going to be finished. Because 2015 is the Year of Finishing What We Start. Because the thing about not finishing goals you’ve set for yourself is there’s no one to blame but you and there’s no one more disappointed in you than you. And we’re not going to spend the last ten months of 2015 being disappointed in ourself. Also, we’re going to stop starting sentences with conjunctions. Happy New Year!