Some days life just hits you and makes you it’s bitch. While this can happen in a variety of ways, today it happened to me esoterically. There I am, 30,000 feet above Dallas, and I just started crying as I stared out of the plane window, watching the sun setting over the cars, buildings and lakes during the hustle and bustle of Tuesday evening traffic. What’s the point? Half of me wondered if life matters at all. A sad, depressed wave as thick as oil oozed slowly over the top of my head and settled all around me in my seat. My life is meaningless. What’s the fucking point of all of this? As I lamented the work trip I was wrapping up, filled with client meetings and a tour for an up and coming luxury airport product. The other half of me looked…
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…