Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Under Pressure

It's the end of the year, and I imagine I'm not alone in feeling all of 2014 plastered onto me like an unwelcome pie to the face (Is there such a thing as a welcome pie to the face? Please advise.). It's weighing me down, man. I'm trolling through Facebook and I'm seeing the customary New Years resolutions and pithy saccharine odes to the past year, filled with baby pictures and dogs. I'm seeing posts of Buzzfeeds "Top Ten Worst Political Moves of 2014 that Corresponded with Tumbler Pizza Roll Recipes". I sound snarky but I'm not going to go on a diatribe about this world in which I so willingly participate. Despite my aggravated tone, I'm not here to get all meta.

Honesty: I'm aggravated because this is a tough day of the year for me. Actually, not just this year- I would venture to say that it's been tough annually since I entered young adulthood. It was only eight years ago that I crossed over, and I'm aware that speaking with such a minute amount of adult life under my belt can only lead to a laughable series of statements that cry out for a shit-truck load of snarky judgement. But I'm choosing to humor myself here, pretend I'll be the only person reading (which very well might be the case!), and power through. My ex-husband keeps telling me that I need to write and also that I should start working out, and I can't disappoint him completely. Full disclosure: I will probably continue my long-standing tradition of not working out.

When did New Years and birthdays stop being fun and become only reminders of the bad things I've done, what I have yet to accomplish, the things I'm ashamed of leaving unfinished? When I was a kid New Years was about staying up late with my sister watching the Disney channel and sparkling grape juice. Birthdays were about cake, for chrissakes. A whole holiday centered around a cake. Now both events are about drinking. In fact, I would venture to say that every adult holiday is about drinking and Instagram. If you have a kid, which I do, the Instagramming becomes more obligatory and the drinking... can occasionally become more necessary.

End this insufferable hate spiral! Here is my plan for the year: Write a blog. It doesn't have to be good and it doesn't have to be every day. This blog isn't focused and it isn't very good, but I'm not very focused. I don't know if I'm good, either, but that's so subjective. So I'll let you decide (as if I had control over that- you've already made some sort of decision about me and in case you were wondering, I'm moderately-to-mostly cool with that.).

There are a lot of great tutorial blogs and mommy blogs and cooking blogs out there. To quote Tina Fey in her brilliant book, Bossypants, "Here, we are out of luck." But if absolutely nothing else, this masturbatory little blog might help pull me out of a rut. It could help me push through some major writers block and slough off some bad habits. It should chronicle some personal and family developments, some scattered joy, some soft feminist rants, and if the past years have been any indication, some solid tragedy. I could do this or I could do nothing. I say this every year, but I really don't want to face next year feeling the way that I do now. 

I could end there, but how dark and self-indulgent would that be? Second full disclosure: there are a lot of things I love about my life. I have a beautiful three year-old daughter. I am safe and warm and sheltered and fed. My relationship with my family is better than ever, across the board. I have some friendships that are developing at different levels, but I would say that most are comparable to jello that has been in the fridge for at least three hours. These are all things that I have faced previous new years without, and I'm grateful. I survived an accident this year that could have easily killed me. I am supposed to be alive. I am meant for a purpose. Again, that's subjective, but I really believe it to be true. 

My dad calls me "Liz the Cat." He calls me this because I am always met with these crazy, life-altering scrapes and somehow, I always land on my feet. He thinks it's pure luck. I prefer to think of it as a lack of thought and care in my everyday life, followed by quick-thinking and efficient emergency action. Regardless of the reason why I am able to always pull through, the fact remains that somehow, I keep making it. I will live to claw up your furniture another day! I will chase all the mice. I will keep trying. That is a promise I can make.