There are thirty days left of 2015. A few pages in the planner and then it’s time to replace it with a brand spanking new one for 2016. I love planners. Big love, y’all. I love them so much that after I spend days assembling just the perfect one, I can’t bring myself to ruin it by actually writing anything down.
I long to be super organized. I’ve read every book ever written about time management; I’ve signed up for every digital reminder service. I know all about the quadrants and how to prioritize the important over the urgent. I collect checklists of recommended monthly home maintenance and spend hours faithfully transferring birthdays from Facebook into my personal calendar.
And then I’m just so darn tired that I put that sucker in a drawer and go sit in my library with a good book. And there it stays until… oh, about now.
I can’t blame this one on my upbringing. My father’s desk was always equipped with one of those full size calendars, and every box (and most of the margins) were filled with notes and reminders. My mother cleaned the house religiously every Saturday morning. My aunt and step-mother, both high-powered business women, still call to plan vacation meals weeks in advance. It’s not that I don’t know what to do, it’s just, well, it’s just I.DON’T.DO.IT. I’m like the anti-Nike campaign.
So here, three weeks before Christmas, as my children sit down to write their letters to Santa, I’m going to write one of my own. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
As you probably know, I haven’t been all that good this year. I’ve tried, well, mostly, but it seems I just can’t get off my ass. I know you’ve probably seen me set my alarm for 5:30 every morning and then beat it about the head until finally rising at 7:30 or so. I’m sorry about that. I’m also sorry that the only exercise I’ve gotten lately is running around the house frantically cleaning 15 minutes before company arrives. I’m sorry that I still haven’t taught my kids to ride a bike, or tie their shoes for that matter. I would like to state for the record that my benign neglect has resulted in three-year-olds who can brush their own teeth (as well as polish the counters with toothpaste) and I think I should get some points for that. I’m sorry that I’ve let my email inbox rack up 1,100 new messages again. But really, can’t you put all spammers on the naughty list? I can’t be responsible for everything.
I know I don’t deserve a gift this year, but I’m appealing to your better nature. I think if you could just fill my stocking with a little self-discipline, next year could be a whole different story. I could finish all those stories littering my desk. I could finally hang the pictures that have been sitting in boxes since we moved. I could clean the gutters, and pay my bills on time, and send out birthday cards, and even teach my kids how to write a decent thank-you note.
So, that’s it. I hope you and the Mrs. have enjoyed your 11 month vacation (how did you swing that gig? We’re in the market you know…) and I hope every cookie you get this Christmas Eve isn’t burned on the bottom like ours are likely to be.
The Bearded Lady
PS: Oh, and if you could send a new planner, that would be great too. I’ve still got a year or so before the dates on my blank ones line up.