So your boss is nagging you for that overdue report and you know when you get home you have that worsening plumbing leak to repair. The kids are at that awkward stage (and have they ever not been?) and the spousal unit (or non-spousal equivalent thereof) gives you the dagger-eye for not being attentive enough.
The cause you most cherish in all the world is making so many demands on you that you start to wonder how you ever came to love it that much. Meanwhile, you never know what the NSA, the TSA, the ATF, or the IRS might spring on you tomorrow. But whatever it is or isn’t, you fear it. You tell yourself you don’t, or you shouldn’t. But somewhere in that one, obscure private corner of your soul that ought to belong to you alone, you fear it.
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Unlike most of you hereabouts who don’t make New Year’s resolutions if the comments are representative, I do make them. Ellendra was about the only commentor on the same bandwagon. (Hi, Ellendra!)
Like everybody else who tries, I also fail at them. But I’ve found they keep me pointed in the right direction. In time, resolutions … resolve. It might be in a different way than you imagined or at a much later time than you hoped. But … you get there.
This year, though, I found myself down to the true stubborncusses of resolution-making. Those ones I’ve made year after year to no avail. The ones where I’ve gone so far as to post behavior schedules above my desk or slap Post-It notes on the bathroom mirror, only to find myself ignoring them as thoroughly as if they were written in Cantonese.