The Reality of New Years...

Well, it’s here folks. It’s 2011 and, according to the Mayans, we’ve got slightly less that two years before the planet comes to a violent and abrupt end. Don’t worry; I’m not going to launch into the now familiar satire poking fun at the Mayan calendar. I don’t know when the world will end any better than you do so for all I know, the Mayans got it right. Regardless, this blog isn’t about Doomsday prophecies. This blog is about the New Year.

I suppose one could argue that the New Year is nothing to celebrate. In the grand scheme of things, this insignificant grain of sand making yet another rotation around a flaming ball of gas is a testament to the power of gravity, not the endurance of humanity. Yet, despite being an arbitrary point plucked from an outdated calendar, I still have a twinge of depression when that large crystal ball drops in Times Square on New Years Eve. In years gone by, I’ve blamed that depression solely on the fact that I didn’t have a woman with whom to properly ring in the New Year. While I still bemoan the absence of my passionate annual kiss, the depression I feel around this time of year merits a closer look.

Granted, this blog entry could take a depressing turn into despair unimaginable if I let it, but my goal isn’t to launch into a pity me scenario. Whether or not this time of year holds any significance to you personally is irrelevant. To me it has become a time of reflection. I reflect on the past year and all its ups and downs, either out of tradition or habit I’m unsure which. But I’ve come to realize that my depression doesn’t stem from a singular cause but rather a subconscious realization that I’m not where I want to be.

While my hopelessly romantic inner self wants desperately to feel the flame of passion round out the old year and begin the new, I must understand that its merely a piece of the puzzle that makes up my inner turmoil. I’m not in, nor have I begun, my journey into higher education. I’m not a professional writer nor on my way towards that goal. I’m not even working in the MAILROOM of a newspaper. My romantic life is all but nonexistent. My financial stability suggests that I have the mind of an 18 year old, not the experience and discipline of a man in his early twenties. The New Year has steadily become a reminder that I’m not only not living up to the world’s expectations of me, I’m not even living up to the expectations of myself.

So this year my resolution is not to spend money wisely. I won’t resolve to lose weight or write more often. My resolution is to do SOMETHING that will make me proud. Something I can look back on with pride on December 31st, 2011. A dream vacation taken, an article published, a debt repaid or even 10 lbs lost. I want literary notoriety, I long fervently for a healthy romantic attachment and I wish daily that I really DID act a full 5 years older than I am. But, in reality, all I want is the chance to look back on SOMETHING I did and be HAPPY. My new year’s resolution is to live up to something expected of me. Regardless of whether or not I expect it of myself, or the world expects it of me, it’d be nice to be PROUD of something I did.
I only hope my family and friends can help me to reach those goals, or if not, help me see what I DID accomplish for what it really is, not my pessimistic view of it.