It's 11:11. Make a wish.
No, it's not.
It is in my room. It's 11 minutes faster in my room than anywhere else.
It means that in your room, you're 11 minutes closer to being 30.
Oh. I thought you were going to say I was 11 minutes closer to being dead.
It seems wrong to be this tired a week into a new year, but I am.
It may be true that nothing changes on New Year's Day, but I tend to greet the start of every year with optimism anyway. As days go, New Year's is no more remarkable than any other, but to me, it's always somehow felt like a chance to pause, shake off whatever mud I fell into last year, check the compass and start fresh.
And that's usually enough. I rarely make anything more than a casual resolution, like to stop using my favorite four-letter words so much. Actually, I make that one every year, and I'm still cussing. But this year started out as something of a slog, and before I sink too far into it, I need to find some actual resolve.
What I need, I decided, is two things: to slow down, and to go outside. I'm spending too much time wringing my hands over things that don't merit it. And I'm failing, miserably, to do anything other than what I always do. I've lived here for six months, and there's still a big hunk of city I've hardly seen. I'm too worked up about one thing and too apathetic about another, and there's no reason things have to stay that way.
These resolutions aren't that so much as they are reminders to myself. It doesn't matter if I still get annoyed with tailgaters on the way to work or if the only new thing I see this year is the
Wedgwood Rock. What I want is to remember that I can put the days to bed and wake up fresh, just like I do every New Year's Eve.
