I’ve had a long standing agreement with my life… if there’s anything about it that I really don’t like, I procrastinate dealing with it until I hit one of two milestones…either my birthday or January 1…
It’s a shitty plan, admittedly. And many times I just hit a mental “Postpone” button (kinda like that Windows Update that keeps cropping up on my screen… you do it, too. Don’t judge me.)
I’m not a believer in resolutions. I’m firmly irresolute. The only thing that I do believe about resolutions is that they usually wind up left at the curb with the dried Scotch pine and broken light strands of the holidays somewhere mid-month.
As I write this, it’s 7 degrees outside, I’ve got a fire snapping and popping in the fireplace about 3 feet away, but I have something burning much more intensely inside.
The urge to write. To create fantasy. To actually make my living from all of the demented fermentation of thoughts, words and ideas sloshing around in the ol’ skull… at least while I still have enough synapses connected to accomplish that.
You only have so many good years on the planet. I’ve been counseling my youngest on that very fact. He spends an inordinate amount of time worrying about deep life issues that a 13 year old needn’t occupy their thoughts with. But that’s a tale for another day.
As I lecture him from my Paternal Pulpit, a little voice distracts me.
“Great advice there, Pops. Now, when does the physician heal himself? When do you start taking your own advice?”
I firmly and politely tell that voice to piss off. I’m tending to my fatherly duties.
“Sure, Pops. You’re 47, you know. Ain’t getting any damn younger, that’s for sure. Just when do you expect this wonderful writing career to start? Another year just flew past you. Another year that you could have been living the life you want to, but you let it slip past. It’s gone. Adios. Sayonara.”
Yeah, yeah. I get it.
“Do you? Do you get it? I happen to recall YOU telling a co-worker that life was short…and if he was unhappy, he should retire. You told him not to waste any more of his life being miserable. You should have been having that conversation in the mirror, pal.”
And so on and so forth. I won’t bore you with the rest of the mental debate, but I’m pretty sure that the voice called me a dumbass and other less nice things.
But it’s true, folks. Not just for me but for you as well. You ain’t getting younger either. So if you are as irresolute as I, skip the resolutions and instead pick one goal to accomplish. I don’t care if it’s racing in the Cannonball Run, or creating art or simply getting your damn laundry caught up. Accomplish that goal and then pick another. Baby steps, just like Bill Murray’s mantra in “What about Bob?”
Tomorrow isn’t a guaranteed delivery. The only thing that you know is that you have the moment now. Take action. Put paint to canvas. Carve unflattering soap sculptures of your sister-in-law. Seek and destroy whatever is creating that godawful funk in your teenager’s bedroom. Whatever it is that you have been putting off, your time to do it is now.
Before another year passes you by, buttercup.
(But seriously, find out what in the hell is causing that smell. The stench is overpowering)
Thanks for a great 2017. I appreciate you and especially those who have been kind enough to give me comments and feedback.
Meanwhile, Imma get busy writing. I’m going to try my hand at erotica, but I can’t post that stuff on a wholesome family blog like this…
Or can I?
(laughs wickedly and then coughs and hacks… damn cigarettes)