Despite believing that people are better off for continual self improvement, and despite the fact that I generally feel more reflective on birthdays, I can’t seem to dodge the sense that this ought to be some new beginning. Trouble is, it’s difficult to begin something without a plan.
I’ve given myself a pass on the whole “life plan” thing for last few years. Rolling around the calendar aimlessly seemed achievement enough. But now, somehow, there is pressure again. To be productive, to have a linear plan, to get with the program. To partner off, to stop bitching about work like I’m in Reality Bites, and to function. To stop overdrawing my bank account, work on a budget, clean up my room, get a real doctor, and grocery shop instead of eating out. To swear less, bitch less, and drink less, and to be sweeter, more open, and more direct. To stop overbooking myself, go to the gym more, and finally take up yoga or some manner of meditation.
These are the things I should do in 2008. I remember living by some theory in the Mezz that I probably read in some horrible book. Something about your life fitting into a triangle. With an angle for platonic relationships, one for romantic relationships, and another for work. Or something. When one angle was acute, the other two compensated. A fine theory until your triangle collapses to a straight line (what, with no beginning or end, to boot). When you’ve got a line, you have to build from scratch, and you’ve got to figure out where to start first. Job searching is good, but lacks the immediate satisfaction I crave. So I send applications into the ether and wait to be picked. Sounds a lot like dating.
Had drinks with M. last night that turned into a four-hour marathon of catching up and talking about subjects more often left unmentioned. He said he doesn’t like to talk to me about G. because I should be “moving on.” I called bullshit on that, and we proceeded to talk about it anyway. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between “moving on” and emptying out, hoping something new fills me up.
Felt neither like I’d moved on nor emptied out when I got home, and crawled from shower to bed. It strikes me as strange how I sometimes lose the ability to cry just when I feel like I have to the most. A little like emotional dry heaving, I’d guess.