Every January 2nd, while people are sucking down Liquiteria like it's the pill from Limitless and paying way too much for a fresh gym membership, I change pretty much nothin'. That's because for the past three years, I've started my resolutions early — mostly because I fear I won't stick to them, and if I falter, I get an immediate second chance. With a newfound ability to jog on Equinox's many hamster wheels and a workout routine set in place since early December, I was feeding baby carrots to my brand new high horse until I realized that moving my limbs beyond speedwalking is no longer the only hurdle I have to toss myself over on a daily basis. As shit-tastic as biking in place in a pitch-black room can be, it's not as torturous as sitting down and simply attempting to cross off every box on my
So, after going through my regular Sunday afternoon routine yesterday of prioritizing menial tasks and making schedules I'll never look at again, I parted the sea of denial and realized my issues head on.
I have a disorganization problem.
Now, it should come as no surprise that my apartment looks like a Wizard of Oz-style tornado-cane struck at the end of each week. After years of trying to learn how to organize like an adult, I just suck it up and spend both weekend afternoons bringing things back to a state of normalcy, ready to be ravaged by the incessant lateness and crazy a work week brings about. But, it's not the laundry-dishes-closet trifecta that's bringing me down this particular weekend, no. It's the virtual cacophony of shit that's piled up everywhere, wreaking havoc on my concentration and productivity. I have thoughts, I have links, I have stories and I have quotes strewn about my inbox and files and docs like a fucking wind gust came and blew the looseleaf paper interiors of my brain right out of my skull. I could have the thighs and vocal cords of Beyonce and still not know how to organize my thoughts, ideas and collaborators for her freaky fresh-out-of-nowhere album. I've been in a long-term relationship with Evernote and have made my iPhone a virtual graveyard for To Do list apps, but have decided the only way I can rise to the top of Trash Mountain without going insane is to ditch the screen and hit the paper.
My problem really isn't a lack of discipline by way of scheduling. I just get caught in the daily red tape, the time it takes to even write the "yes, let's get dinner next month! xx" e-mails and archive press releases for products I'll never ever ever write about. I don't know yet if that photo up top of today's necessary purchases is a portrait of hope or failure, but I'm determined to get the hell back on track without drowning in the small things. I've been reading and listening to a lot of things that emphasize the idea that a routine life frees you up to focus on what really matters, and the concept of having somewhere to plop the ideas swimming around in my brain aquarium directly onto paper may just save my sanity.
Even today, I had to buy brand new groceries because I couldn't find the time to cook the root vegetables lining my counter. (And ok, wasabi white bean hummus because fuck my face, it's like a spicy heavenly mouth explosion.) This concept of being that organized that you can free your mind of the day-to-day in order to focus on what's really important is so absolutely enthralling to me, so all-consumingly interesting that I'd pursue it further if it wasn't ironically relegated to the back of my brain once it's time to change laundry loads.
Could this be one sad woman's plea for a sack of Adderall to land down her chimney this Christmas? Sure. But I've got five Muji notebooks, an endless supply of ink and a whole fuck-ton of stuff to start filing away in separate spiral-bound containers. All I gotta do now is figure out how in the hell to write legibly.