I don’t know about anyone else, but I am so glad 2023 is over.
Not because I believe it was as bad as things could get. I’m too superstitious to claim that. Frankly, I’ve offered myself up as a jinx tribute with too many other things I’ve said since 2020 about how I want my new year to facilitate a new me. I know better. I dare not.
I do tend to ramble, though. Sometimes my words are rushed because I have to squeeze my self-expression into the sparse hours around capitalistic pursuits, menopause, and late-onset ADHD.
Where was I?
Oh yeah, new year - new me bullshit…
2024 must be better than its older sister and her two prior evil twins. I don’t believe in a much better me. I plan to bring more of whatever I am to whatever this is.
If I must resolve in her:
I’d like to have enough energy to return to my art and make more money to travel like I did a birthday ago.
I am preparing to transition from semi to full retirement, so if we can make that easier, I’d like to do that unscathed.
If 2024 could be calm enough, hold off on the inevitable inflation-imposed depression that the numbers are predicting for the next 24 months…if she could hold off a bit on that, it would be alright.
I’d like her not to have another plague or Trump if she could be so kind.
This new year needs to be a new kind of year. Please stop asking me to be new.
I created buckets for my prolific pursuits to simulate my desired life like a good self-help student.
I’ve taken my medicines, done some immersion therapy, gone on a retreat for my soul to speak up more, and quit my full-time job to plunge into a more creative daily brain space.
I've bribed my teenager to keep calm and carry on through high school to graduate and get into somebody’s good college and to function IRL as if they have a parent who tries. Bribing teenagers works. It’s called progressive parenting. Look it up.
I’ve done the things, y’all. I even moved from my hometown and updated my LinkedIn.
Listen…I’ve done all I can do ‘24. Meet me where I am.
With much first-hand exhaustion and socially telepathic joy, this New Year’s Eve night alone finds me in my closet. I am on a block that has happy families popping fireworks in the street and other good ole southern folks celebrating midnight with an array of gunfire that reminds me of the sounds around my childhood home, the one that was shot up in a drive-by when I was nine.
Okay, so I’m in the closet because the sounds still spook me, but I’m 47 now, so I have champagne and high-grade headphones this time. That’s better.
Anyway, 123123 just turned 1124, and I’m looking forward to good things.
I know it’s frightening, but I have this brave stupidity about the ‘recession depression.’ More money and opportunities are screaming at me, which is exciting, and my health is better because my brain indulges in things my soul wants to spend my life force on. I am still tired but way less stressed. I give it four out of five stars, leaving corporate middle management; I highly recommend it to any sick, stressed, over-achieving black American with actual dreams they may be good at.
The police are cruising to tell folks to put their guns away now. ‘Happy New Year’s now, you all. Get inside and be safe now, you hear?’ Can a twang from a uniform be comforting and scary? I can move from the closet to the bed now. Where’s my weighted blanket?
~TJR, Jan 1, 2024 LaTexArkana