Everything in it’s place. The boxes in my day planner, the months that hang on the wall. The blocked off sections for to-do lists and appointments, reminders and resolutions. When it all goes tickety-boo, I am a happy girl. Barring being happy, I at least know where all the time went wherein I wasn’t happy, or planning to make myself happy, or putting “happiness and sunshine” on my short term goals list next to “hem pants”.
There is something about the best laid plans here. There is a quote that infers my boxes are shoddy, the plans tentative at best and the rest…”flexible”. There is advice here about learning to go with the flow, about knowing your limits and other sensistive mumbo jumbo that I prefer to steamroll with a few good hours of self flagellation and hard work.
But this week, the universe gave me no choice. The boxes caved, the plans were erased, the limit was reached and frankly, my legs gave out from underneath me in abject protest. I started the year with making a resolution a month, and each of them came with a caveat – that if I didn’t succeed, then I’d at least fail. Watching my little plans melt into oblivion this week one after another, January sucker punched me in the gut with a fist full of hot fail.
When I sat down this evening and peered into the boxes I had left, I expected to be disappointed. Instead, each one was filled with a little surprise – brunch with friends, an afternoon cooking with J, unexpected windfalls and gratitude nestled between laughter, heart to hearts and chats at the touch of a button. Somewhere along the way I booked a vacation, saw a movie and mailed a stack of letters.
As a result, January’s resolution is still on the way. It’s in a box, waiting, right next to the box o’ fail. And as of January, I’m ok with that.