It’s December 31st, 2018. Tomorrow marks the start of the New Year. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I am not one of those types of folks. I often joke that if I did, I’d share a kindred soul to Bridget Jones in this regard, “This year’s New Year’s resolution? Keep New Year’s resolutions.” But there is something in the air this year where my heart longs to make New Year’s resolutions. I likely won’t. I likely won’t stick to them, even if I make them. That, or I’ll make them vague enough that if I fail them, I won’t beat myself up. Or, perhaps I’ll just invoke some old (good) habits I used to do regularly, since I’m finally feeling a tinge of empowerment to do so after what feels…
I’m mad. Not like, fiery, furious mad. But just really frustrated. There is a rebellion in my soul right now. The kind where I absolutely cannot make myself work. See? It’s 3:44pm right now on a Monday. I spent half of my Sunday the weekend before last working until 10pm. Which is fine. I wasn’t too upset about it – except for the fact that it was in Nashville and I had my last night with my best friend planned – but had to work. Luckily, she’s one of the bravest souls I know and has a deep comfort with exploring new towns (and cities… shit, and countries too!) on her own I have to admit – I do not have that level of curiosity and adventure. And she had a great time. And because I had a 7am call the next morning, I had…