We are almost eight weeks weeks into the new year, and for those keeping count I am negative two on my resolutions for 2018.
Besides the ones to “work out every day yada, yada, yada …”, and read more books, I have also failed at things I didn’t even formally commit to, which takes a special talent in the art of failure.
But I’ve never claimed excellence in my mental organization. Like, not once.
Although I never wrote it down, I remembered that sometime last year as I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, I told myself a good new year’s resolution would be less social media. And by less, I meant none.
Not done, and not done.
When you tell yourself you’re going to take it easy on social media for a while, the same thing happens as when you go on a diet – the frontal cortex of your brain goes into starvation mode, and says “Mayday! Mayday! More! Gimme more!” Also, it says things like, “You should just bathe in it,” and “Take no prisoners.”
Unfortunately, being addicted to Facebook is probably close to being bulimic in that you gorge yourself, and the only outlet is to purge it back out. Neither kind is healthy, trust me on this.
The other resolution that got me into the negative was one I’ve had so long I just stopped writing it down, and it is this: This is the year I will use better discretion on when and where I dance in the car. Three policemen and about 50 strangers of all ages can vouch for the fact I have broken that one every single day this year.
And what I really meant by “I’m going to read two books a month this year, “ was “I’m going to read a book in the first eight weeks of 2018, and see where it takes me.”
Success, in my case, lies in the semantics.
To reiterate, it looks like I will not be in beach shape by June. Or, at the rate I’m not going – August even.
I will sit in my shame corner and acknowledge I gorged on the all-you-can-eat social media buffet with wild abandon.
I’m a slow reader.
I can’t deny my disco destiny, and I won’t. But it’s February 22 and I’m still standing, looking for a good book and a swim suit made by Spanx. I’m still making no hard-core commitments on social media, because … I’m probably a self-masochist at heart (note to self: get a therapist).
And dancing, always dancing. I’ll take it.