The Winter of our Discontent

The week between Christmas and New Year's is an odd kind of limbo. All the build-up and excitement of Christmas has been brought to an abrupt halt, but there's still that extra week tacked on, the no-man's land before you can start breaking your resolutions in earnest.

I can't say I'm sad to see it go. Sure, now I've got to pretend to be diligent and sincere again, but at least that makes me feel like I'm swimming against a tide I can actually feel instead of some airy, amorphous mist comprised of vaporized pine needles and the raisins that fell out of the stollen and rolled away unnoticed under the cabinets. 

So Happy New Year one and all. And while I would have preferred to make resolutions like drinking more, telling people to STFU more, and perfecting my hermit skills, I suppose that would be bad form. Instead, I'm going to try to let go of past resentments, even though they're nice, hot little coals that keep me warm at night. I'm going to try to be less self-critical, because I'm never going to be a Catholic martyr. I'm going to try not to say things in anger, because it's a waste of words, especially when you can think up something so much more cutting if you just wait a few minutes. OK, joking. Really. Sort of.

Mostly I'm going to try to use my time better, more wisely, more usefully,  because as the passing of another year shows us, time is something that slips away so quickly, leaving either accomplishments or regrets.  I've run out of room for regrets. Unless I clean out the closet, and let's face it, that's not going to happen.