Happy New Year

“Happy New Year” I said to myself “Happy. New. Year.”

When I should be feeling the optimism, the energy of a fresh start, all I felt was bleh. Not just hangover bleh but that kind of mental, spiritual bleh that hangs around in your heart like a sack of musty laundry on a rainy day. Heavy. Smelly. Bleh.

“Cmon Gin… today’s the day!” my optimistic self prompted cheerily. “Resolutions day! Time to set goals... Go forth… Get moving along life’s highway…”

I stared blankly out the window. Would I be inspired by the saggy potplants on the verandah or the neat symmetry of the venetians? Who am I kidding?! It’s just another procrastination in a life of unintentional ordinariness. So I stared again, thinking “unintentional ordinariness” was quite a nice expression, really.

“OK”, said practical me, “Let’s go over your previous resolutions: Lose weight. (Year after year after year.) Don’t worry about losing weight but be healthy. Stop drinking and then you’ll lose weight and become healthy. Believe in yourself because then you might stop drinking, and accidentally become healthy. And lose weight. Bugger all that weight rubbish, get out there into the world and do some stuff you haven’t done before. (That was a year – kind of a 50^th birthday midlife crisis menopause new year’s resolution all rolled into one. And I actually did do a few interesting things like sign up to be an acting extra, go hot air ballooning, climb the harbour bridge and win a competition that sent me to Uluru… good one Gin!)”

But for every yin there’s a yang. Is a good year a yin or a yang? Anyway, last year was definitely a yang. A bleh yang in fact. Another year of same same. Work hard, don’t get paid enough. Support husband through his giant bleh year, because of course his bleh is more important than my bleh. Have everyday anxt and midnight fullblown freakout panic attacks about Dad, who is older than the dinosaurs and shuffles about (very unsteadily) downstairs. Think about losing weight. All the freakin time, but actually do little but think about it. And feel inordinately jealous of the lovely inspired energetic young things I work with who are a daily reminder of how vastly interesting their lives are and how bleh mine is.

“Were you making resolutions or feeling sorry for yourself?!!” snapped grumpy old shit me.

Alright. Alright. Alright. What can I resolve that is actually achievable? Without winning Lotto. Without moving to Tasmania and living on a hilltop. Without divorcing. Without ridiculous procrastination… Something I can just sneak into my day-to-day days, hardly noticing it’s there, but at the end of the year I’ll think “I’m GLAD I did that!”

Conquer my medical problems! Tadaa!! No I already did that. HRT. Mammygrammy. Dietitian. Physio. Blood pressure, blah blah blah…bleh.

Exercise! Every day! Every day, or second day! Or now and then. Or when I feel guilty cause I ate until I was gonna explode last night… hmmpf!

“Just do it!” year. Nike’s got to be onto something with that… work my way out of this chronic procrastination by just getting up and going ahead with whatever flashes into my head! Right now! Oh, it’s dark? No cash? He’s got something else planned? Maybe tomorrow? I’ll write a list. Yeah baby, that’ll get things done. A list always gets things done! … Didn’t I do that? Where did I put that list?

“Planning for the future” year. That was supposed to be last year’s resolution, maybe I can recycle it for this year. I was going to save a lot (that didn’t happen). I was going to get fitter so I could go hiking and tend to a farm when I retire (funny, Mrs over 100kg…). I was going to be Nanna of the year! Well, I love them, but it’s often from a distance… I did get my RSA and RCG cards, so one day, one day, one day, we could run a pub or a country town tours business or at least be a waitress in a café somewhere that’s not here. I might keep that one going, just bit by bit, see how I progress.

There’s one other thing I like better and better as the years go by. It makes me feel clever (even cleverer than the brilliant young things at work). It makes me want to share it with friends, and even with strangers. It fills me with fear of criticism but also with a desire to BE criticised. I can do it inside my head, or on the computer, on bits of paper, any time. It costs nothing but time and imagination. It picks up all the pieces inside me… creativity, memory, experience, observation, relationships, imagination, TV addiction and Mum yelling “that’s not spelt that way!” and pulls them into one, hopefully meaningful, package.

I’m doing it now. And I’m smiling when no-one else is in the room. Writing is my 2020 resolution! I don’t really care if you read it and love it, or cry, or empathise, or admire (yes I do!). It makes me happy. And the more I write the happier I am. “Good resolution Gin!” says practical me.

“…And how are you going to be disciplined enough to write... to scrape all that flotsam out of your head and put it into words?!” growls grumpy old shit me, the boring, irritatingly rational personality that she is.

I’m doing it, aren’t I? I’m participating in my first reedsyprompts sesh. With my creative writing budds. Or at least someone who might read this and smirk a bit. And I’m thinking how much I just enjoy scratching around in my head to find the right word, tapping it out and forever correcting the typos, and that I can’t wait to read somebody’s response. Do they feel just like me?

And tomorrow… or maybe even today (thanks Mrs Optimism) I’ll start my next project, a story, a great tale, a book. It’s all in my head, waiting to get out. “I hereby resolve…. To write!”