In truth, I’ve never been much for New Year’s, but that doesn’t make me all that unusual. Lots of us struggle with feeling pressured to take stock of our annual achievements and goals.
I’ve gotten better at this over the years, and while I enjoy a good wallow, I have learned that I can wallow any old time. There’s no need to schedule it for a few hours on the 31st of every December.
Or maybe it’s as simple as this.
With pandemic, who gives a shit anymore? Did you survive the year? That’s success. We’re good here. Congrats to us. May you continue to survive, to eke out a little happiness from small joys. A brisk evening walk with a friend. Lunch under a heat lamp on a reclaimed lane of Sixth Avenue. Writing a series of Facebook posts instead of a book. The bar is so low to be harmless and unintimidating; you can’t even stub your toe on it.
Happy New Year, everyone. Welcome to another day of another week of another month of another year. Arbitrary dates aren’t really meaningful, so if you barely got through 2021, don’t sweat it. Plenty of time for that brisk walk later in the month, or just give up on it altogether and do something unabashedly meaningless and silly. In 2022, success is introducing yourself to the neighbor's dog.
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