That said, I'm happy to see this year go. Twenty-oh-niner was a bully. He pressed my face into the mud and dotted me with spitballs. He pantsed me oh-so-many times and worst of all, he asked me questions I couldn't answer: Where do you come from? Who are you? Where are you going?
Hardly Guantanamo-esque interrogatives, I know. But when you're grinding coffee beans at noon with your eyes barely open, existential queries like these threaten your ability to survive breakfast.
Cue the fanfare. Next year will be different. I will embrace capital O (for Obama) change, and raise a standard of almost theatrical confidence. And I'll wave the damn thing too. I will shout platitudes. I will traverse latitudes. I will change my attitude, and I will wield my resolve to capital O change with both hands, like a sword. And I will swing this sword wildly at the naysaying tagalongs whose faces so closely resemble mine. And I will do more pushups.
* * *
No, fuck this -- cut the music -- this isn't new thinking. This is capital O optimism of the worst kind. The Optimism that mistakes genuine hope for reform itself. As though adjusting your sentiments is sufficient for true change.
If I really want next year to be different, I must skip the resolutions. Let's have fewer resolutions and more revelations. And here's a good one to start: the dawn of a new year (or decade) isn't a turning point. It is no desert oasis, nor the starting line to a marathon, nor a warm gun in my hand. It's just a mile marker on a really long road. It's possible to be inspired by a signpost without having to pretend that tomorrow I will set forth on hallowed pavement. If I figure out the answers to last year's questions let it be by accident, or luck, or Because.
Next year will be different. I will set down the flag, and endeavour merely to try a little bit harder, and not be ashamed by the effort.
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