Between the teeth-loosening construction and Evil Landlady 5’s bullshit and the inept maintenance man and the horrible smells and the general dumpiness of it all, let’s thank mom for cleaning the mess off the balcony so I could enjoy some Tennessee Honey and love my view while it’s still mine.
I hate resolutions more than the next person. But that’s because I break them, so there’s that.
Here are my goals for the year, and if I’m not somehow working toward them, then I’m not doing myself a service.
1. Stop blaming everyone. Including myself.
I have no life because of work. I have no quality of what little life is left over because of mom. I’m fat because I’m stressed.
And all of that, while on the surface can appear to be perfectly accurate, is wrong.
I have a life. A good one, even. That it is not better is because I don’t make it that way.
Easy example. There’s a publication I am mandated to read. I generally dislike the writing style so it just seems to me an extra stressor when I could be doing, I dunno, yoga. Or more likely reading something else that would bring me pleasure. Like US Magazine, in most cases. But still.
I’ve learned to blame myself, though. That if I were a better person, I could do that AND the other things in life I haven’t prioritized.
This year, yes I’ll read it. But I have to recognize that the only one who has the power to make me move apartments, work less, take that industry-standard copywriting course I paid dearly for, or stop putting cake in my mouth because (admittedly) Mom insisted on having it in the house … is me.
2. Enjoy what I have, while I have it.
Moving apartments is not a goal. It’s a necessity. This place is a goddamned health hazard. Physical as well as mental.
I will miss my view and the beach. Which I have not taken advantage of due to A) overwork and B) mom being too sick/weak to go and I never get to go without her.
The next place will have its drawbacks and I’m killing myself to find something that has what mom wants (privacy, view) and modernity (i.e., elevators not handmade by Otis, stove not personally installed by Westinghouse) and in a price range that will maybe help me to stop thinking up new ways to pick up side jobs in my already twee amount of free time.
3. Accept that I live in Florida (good) and that everything I do is meant to keep me living a nice little life here.
This is specific to making a living. And also related to not blaming everyone else.
I think maybe I should resolve not to talk about workapalooza on the blog anymore. Or Faceypages, for that matter.
Either I’m going to go completely silent, or completely crazy.
My friends said to me over dinner last night, that they don’t know how I handle job/mom/apartment/life. But they think I’m the happiest one of the bunch and they can’t get over how much I LOVE my crazy line of work.
Honestly I want a schedule like they have — working part-time around the kids. I just don’t need the kids.
Not to say I don’t want a kid. There. I said it. But not right now. Not this way. Not with the Weight of the World and No One to Share It With.
In any case, it’s not cheap living in Florida. So I need to suck it up and quit my bitching, even though it’s mostly only to myself. Did the rent check clear? Did the credit card get approved at the gas station? Did I get a pedicure last night and walk out in flip-flops and go drink a nice wasabi martini and eat sea bass?
Good. Then quit yer bitchin’, Goddess.
Besides, there are other things to write about …
