- January is my favourite time of year. Partly because January means that the hell that is Christmas is over, but also because I suppose somewhere in this kinda-flighty-kinda-romantic brain of mine there exists an irreparable love of new beginnings. As always, I will note that I am aware of the snark and eye-rolly feelings that accompany many when it comes to resolutions and starting over. I get it. I read all the Bridget Jones books at least three to five times each and therefore I know that plans of improving on one’s habits are quite typically short-lived for most of us. I, however, have no goals of eating less cheese or chocolate. Any concern regarding the size of my derriere has more to do with wondering if I should be worried about how much weight I’ve put on since changing my meds, or if I should just shrug and go along with it. I admit though, there is a bit of bummage concerning how long I have before I need to rethink my wardrobe. Thankfully a lot of my clothing is one size fits most.
This year, as you all know, is a little different to all the ones that came before. Not since 2009 have I entered a year with such trepidation, unsure and oh so weary of what is to come. I learned a long time ago that when writing I absolutely cannot afford to insist on a particular outcome. Instead, I start with an idea and barrel forward, eager and intrigued to see how it all turns out. It’s one of the few things I’ve actually managed to “get right” in this disastrous existence of mine. Applying the same principle to the plans regarding my life, however, is a little harder.
So far, this year has included:
1.) A heartbroken daughter who I am powerless to console.
2.) A hair dying session that resulted in massive purple footprints on my newly purchased (and endlessly agonized over re whether or not I “deserve” to purchase something so elaborate) carpets. Yes, carpetS. My husband walked away from dying my hair (purple dye somehow covering the undersides of both his feet) and despite me having said earlier “please don’t walk on the carpet just in case you’ve stepped in dye” barrelled straight over the mat and completely ignored my shrieks of horror, only to continue his purple massacre on one of the light blue carpets in the passage. When asked why he ignored my exclamations I was told that I “scream all the time” so he didn’t bother heeding me. I do have to ask one question regarding this: How is it that the man jumps in concern every.single.time I exhale loudly on account of not realising that I was holding my breath (hi, we’re dealing with an anxious ADHDer here) even though not once EVER have I randomly sighed out of the blue into the silence for any other reason that I’m shit at breathing, and yet a SCREAM elicits no response whatsoever. Because even if I DO “scream all the time” (lies, by the way) there have certainly been more pressing reasons to react amongst all those (fabricated) screams than any of the bloody sighs that have never meant a single thing!
3.) Contemplated divorce AGAIN because of the carpet thing. Not because he fucked up the carpet (it did wash out, thankfully, and I’m super bummed that I did not think to take a picture of those heartstopping footprints!) but because for the love of god how the hell is your response to trekking purple prints all over your wife’s new carpet (which she absolutely loves) “you scream too much” instead of “holy crap babe I’m so sorry”?!
4.) Realised that if I do ever divorce this man I will only entertain women and vibrators for the rest of my life. I’m not even a tiny bit joking. Men is too headache.
5.) The dogs chewed holes in the outside furniture. Not just the wooden chairs and coffee table, but the couch cushions and the throws. The plan is to close the outside lounge in (it’s pretty much the only place where we can receive the almost no guests that we entertain) but obviously I have zero money to do so at this point and now it’s all chewed. Our fault for neglecting them on NY day, I suppose. But fork, man.
6.) Ty got gastro.
7.) I got flu or a cold. I don’t know the difference. I can taste things though and there’s a lot of snot so it’s not corona. I should probably not leave the house for a while regardless.
8.) The microwave died. JUST when I got all enthusiastic about using the Indian cook book I bought in India FIVE years ago. I can’t cook rice without my microwave. My rice dish ended up more like couscous. Luckily it was still delcious.
9.) Ty got stung in the face by a bee. Somehow I got yelled at for that which was confusing because even MY insurmountable guilt complex couldn’t come up with how the fuck that was supposed to be my fault.
Any other year these things would feel a little big. Ominous. A sign of things to come. This year they kind of just feel like a typical, but thankfully mild, extension of the shitshow that is our current state of being. In the face of way too many losses that have struck close to home and close to the homes of far too many loved ones, getting divorced and exchanging my bisexuality for lesbianism seems like quite a mild endeavour.
This year, however, while I do have a few things I’d like to get around to, I think it’s best to tiptoe into 2021 with my hands behind my back and my head bowed in silence, because there is absolutely no way any of us can know what the future holds right now.
It did feel pretty damn good to write this though. I forgot how much I love typing…
So perhaps that’s where I should start.
Do you have any quiet resolutions in mind?