On Love and Not Giving Two F*cks
So it’s 2014 and it’s time for a change. I’m going to:
Lose 15-37 pounds
Stop using he F-word and/or drinking
Save all of the money that I would normally blow on wine and leggings and pretzel crackers so that I can give it to an incredible non-profit organization
Drink only water and only out of reusable bottles
Write every day
And do pilates in the mornings after a healthy breakfast and vigorous flossing.
It’s going to be a great year.
Except… fuck that.
I am much too busy and important to promise myself (and really the world at large) that I am going to clean up my act. Especially since I’m pretty much 95% of the time doing things for other people anyway. Instead, I am going to commit to not doing things to clear up my schedule a bit and ensure I’m much more successful at the things I decided to continue doing.
Which leads me to:
The 10 Things That You, and I, and Everyone We Know Should Promise Not to Give a Fuck About in 2014
Where I am going to be in one year:
I might be hiking the Appalachian Trail.
I might still be trying to figure out how to spell Appalachia.
I might be bumming a couch at a friend’s place in Chicago.
I could be bar-tending on a cruise ship or guiding high school students on trips abroad.
Or I could be living exactly where I am, happy as a clam (or for that matter as miserable as plankton).
Being somewhere isn’t the same thing as becoming something and I think everyone could spend some time focusing their seldom used chi on loving right now, right here. Wherever that may be. And much less time being preoccupied with the local dress or zip code.
Doing the dishes:
They are just going to get dirty again. Pretty much immediately unless you’re actually following your diet resolutions. So unless there is peanut butter on a knife, or cottage cheese threatening to rot, I’m just not going to give a fuck. I’m sure the 8 billion other people who live and/or crash at my house might object, but I pay the mortgage. And a stinky sink only deters would-be-burglars from thinking I’m classy and might own expensive things anyway. It’s win/win. (For me, not the burglar.)
The bar tab:
Until this moment, in this new year, I have been the queen of hoarding my wine bottles, counting out 2 second pours for my pals and splitting checks with more precision than Sally Albright. But why? Going out to a bar to have a few beers with a few friends shouldn’t become more complicated than the Louisiana Purchase. What a waste of worrying when the drinks could be flowing and everyone could be having a terrific time. That being said, I’m going to be suddenly suspicious of anyone who suddenly wants to get a beer with me.
What someone said:
I’m just not really concerned with what you, or he, or she, or even to be honest what I said. If I spend too much time re-hashing conversations I was or wasn’t present for, I feel like I might as well get a job in Williamsburg, West Vergingia and be paid for it.
She is going to be terrible until the end of time. But she isn’t going to be taken off SNL until Kim Kardashian isn’t a thing anymore and unfortunately I just don’t see that happening in 2014. I just need to accept that and try to focus on things like how awesome Cecily Strong is and reruns of any episode involving Kristen Wiig. Or pilates?
If I’ve learned one thing about eating healthy, calorie counting is just miserable. There are so many more genius ways to ensure that you don’t have to buy new pants that include, but are not limited to:
Shoveling your driveway instead of putting the mailman in a life threatening situation
Not eating two pieces of pie
Consuming vegetables regularly
Avoiding Chinese food and Fazoli’s
Taking the two stairs instead of the wheelchair ramp
And not stealing your children’s Halloween candy.
Calories make everything look miserable. Even an apple has calories. What a gip.
Reading new books:
I’m pretty much always trying to find a book that will change my life (again) which is really hard when you’ve read a lot and all but committed marriage to a handful of authors. Which brings me to my point, which is — what’s so wrong with re-reading books that you love? I’ll never be able to replace the surprise ending to Harry Potter and Prisoner or Azkaban or find a book that makes me feel the way Chelsea Handler made me feel in “Are You There Vodka, It’s Me, Chelsea” so why try? I pledge to re-read every book I don’t think I’ll ever find a comparison for in 2014. Because a bunch of dud books just isn’t worth it and I really don’t think I’ll ever find Chelsea H. peeing her pants not funny.
Let’s face it, almost every relationship is going to turn into the most painful of Amy Winehouse songs before too long. Granted lots of people make it out of the dark twisty pit of despair and end up spending years upon years in happy, cheesy, disgusting bliss. But it’s not because they wasted Tuesdays wondering what the love of their life was wearing or spent more money on their lovah’s dinner than on their own. It’s ridiculous to focus on love. It won’t focus on you.
Love is like a drunken homeless man trying to bum a cigarette from you, and you don’t even smoke. It’s hard to understand, it turns you into a bumbling idiot making endless excuses, it asks for more than you’ve got and to be real cavalier, it hasn’t shaved in months. It’s fun and all, but you shouldn’t let it ruin your night or take all the hot water.
It’s coming. And there isn’t anything you can do about it. Even if I make 1,000 lists, eat a gluten free diet, call all my loved ones on a regular basis, supplement my dinner with vitamin tablets, walk and hour a day and take out the trash. Tomorrow will still be tomorrow. And it always comes after today.
We done messed up. Get over it. 2013 was a bust, as was 2012 and 11 and 10 and every year that you have been able to consume alcohol publicly. There was so much about 2013 that was badass, it’s just hard to remember when you’re focusing on how you’re single and broke and you gained weight in your thighs last year. Try to remember that time that everyone surprised you, or that other time when you had a great hair day. See? 2013 wasn’t so bad. And even if it was, it’s not worth giving a fuck about in 2014.