Happy New Year!
So I’m a little bit late. Twenty-one days late to be precise (and I love being precise).
The last 21 days have been a bit on the rough side for reasons that I’m not planning on sharing with the world at this point in time (vague blogging!). I logged into ye olde blogge several times to write a post, stared at a blank screen for a while, and then logged out.
This has also been my approach to writing and eating and exercising. I’ve spent more time staring at blank screens and into the depths of my fridge and at my running shoes in the last few weeks than actually doing anything productive and useful. At all. I’ve run once this month. I yoga’d once. I’ve written less than 2000 words. I’ve eaten very little and when I do eat, I’m eating crap. I’m also barely sleeping and all of this is not surprisingly making me feel terrible!
So why did I break three weeks of blog silence to whinge at you internets?
Because I wanted to remind myself (and you, too, I guess…in case you care) that this is the #yearofme and dammit, just because things are stressful doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of myself. There’s only so long I can eat my feelings before those feelings start to become who I am instead of a temporary state of being.
So it’s time to revisit my #yearofme goals.
- More sleep
- More writing
- More movement
- More job satisfaction – things are actually, maybe, just possibly looking up here
Bonus mini goals
- More water
- More gin
- More love
- More laughter
- More time outdoors with the Bean
- More unicorns
- More letting shit go
- More reading
- More cheese
- More beer & cribbage nights
I am ready to pull myself out of the self-pitying funk I’ve been in. Sometimes life is hard and adulting is less desirable than building a pillow fort and hiding with a few books and a bottle of gin, but I am a strong, capable woman who has the power to make my own life as awesome as I want it. I
can’t won’t sit around waiting for my fairy godmother to show up and *poof* my life more fantastic.
I’m sure I’ll still have moments or days or maybe a week of self-pity here and there, but I swear on the life on my second-born child (I do not have a second born, nor will I ever…just to quell any rumors that phrase might inadvertently start), I am going to start taking care of myself and that is going to make all the difference.
My strategy is to give zero fucks and just do what I want.
Also chocolate milk.