My loosely upheld New Year's resolution isn't to do the dishes before bed, wash my jeans once in awhile or learn what dusting is, because if I don't start doing those soon, I'm going to be a manchild forever. (I say manchild because women of my make and model are always going to be rough around the edges, and "babylady" sounds like I'm farming out eggs to a surrogate.) No, my ridiculous, self-held goal for the fresh calendar year upon us is actually to get hot. Yup, hot. Really really hot, like tie t-shirts up to my ribcage in a knot because "oops I didn't realize my stomach was hanging out!" kind of hot-hot. It's a goal I'll never attain, so failing miserably won't feel so bad, and any dollop of effort (yes, I used a sour cream adjective) I put forth will do wonders for my current situation.
(That situation, of course, having two pairs of crotchally-ripped jeans and one pair of jeggings to my name, along with a closet of beautiful things I do not currently fit into thanks to the culinary wonders presented to me from June through December.)
However, my real New Year's Resolution should be to reinstate a little acronym I learned in Fifth Grade: SSR. Sustained Silent Reading, or as we "cool kids" referred to it, Sit down, Shut up and Read. A full chunk of the day dedicated to scanning whatever lines of text you preferred, all while trying to get the good seat in the cushioned reading area together so you could feel like kings. My present day iteration, of course, would be more of the virtual pen-to-paper variety. Frankly put: sit your men's boxer-clad ass down in your broken desk chair, shut the fuck up about how you need to glare gape-jawed at your Gmail inbox, and oh my god write already!
Once I'm in the SSW position, I could keep blabbering messages from my brain to fingers senselessly for hours on end, but getting to that point takes a Life Is Pi-level journey to get to the woosh-woosh brainwaves of the sentence-stringing sea. While writing just one section of this post, I will have found myself fully immersed in a six-paragraph story about an OK Cupid user who used the site to recover his lost cell phone, watched a clip video of Mean Girls' Janis Ian set to Lindsay Lohan's first and only single (which stands up, by the way), written on a friend's Facebook post about The Wire, read about how beach spray can volumize hair before blow dries as well, and actually got so distracted that an entire day went by,forcing this post to be put up over 24 matchsticks of time later than intended.
I've been sidetracked by homemade peanut butter, by George Costanza dresses, by coffee machine cleaning. I've pushed everything aside to look up the entire cast of The Mindy Project on IMDB, learn how to make a cutting board, read organizational tips about putting bobby pins in a Tic Tac box. I think half the reason I enjoy stuffing my face with nibbles all day long instead of eating a large helping of lasagna for my day's one meal like a Carrie Bradshaw-ified Downtown Garfield is that it provides tiny breaks from doing what I'm supposed to doing. After all, I inadvertently supported my roommate's ciggy habit through college by joining her on frigid jaunts outside of venues and bars just because "I like taking breaks." Smokers' best friend, sure; Productivity's worst nightmare, seen.
I haven't picked up a blow dryer or attempted that liquid eyeliner "flick" that The Beauty Department tells me I should be woman enough to master, but I have learned one thing in these first nine days of 2013. Apparently, actually hustling is different from saying the word hustle a bunch of times to yourself before you get lost in the depths of the Facebook profile of that guy you went to hebrew school with like a million years ago and go "Wait, what am i doing here?" and then add things to your Amazon Wish List for a half hour. My inability to focus has always been buzzing below the surface like a disgruntled employee who's about to snap, but remains there, pooling, due to my hate for daily medicines and lack of seeing a brain doctor to convince me otherwise. Not after this week, though.
If you're ever unsure if someone you love actually has ADD or not, take them to Container Store. Bring them to a land filled with plastic boxes in indistinguishable shapes, deposit them near the open-format closet storage and let them loose within a world in which they'll lose themselves and return, harried, asking for a second opinion on which "Best Ever!" drawer organizer they need for that kitchen drawer they didn't even know needed an organizer.
I made my second trip there this past Monday; the first visit ended in me shaking my head side-to-side upon walking in, relegating it to another day with fully admitted procrastination and the fear still recognizable in my eyes after recent endless cart pushing across the street. (A few days ago, I found myself saying how I'll never really be a New Yorker until I see someone poop on the street, but I really rescinded any new-hometown cred by visiting Bed Bath & Beyond on a Sunday, at the post-brunch-o-clock of 3:30pm. Amateur Hour.)
Having been in the eye of the attention deficit tornado not once, not twice but three times in the past week between those two mega-shops and a two hour trip to Whole Foods (oh boy), I've realized that those crazed instincts buzzing under the surface aren't so subterranean after all. I've been having trouble for months accomplishing tasks in an organized way, down to knowing where my keys are or even keeping my makeup all in one sack, but in a new home, with new surroundings, I'm overcoming that voice in my head that says "Noooo, worry about having clean clothes for tomorrow tomorrowwww." I'm finally going to (attempt to) block out the noise and just sit myself down, shut everything else (sorta) off and write. It won't advance my attempt at looking like sexpot in a pair of leggings and a too-small t-shirt instead of the female counterpart to Lutz, but it'll do.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm late for work.