After the memory of yet another lovely soiree was tarnished by a one too many margarita regretfest (perhaps more commonly know as cinco de mayo), I awoke the next morning vowing that I really would try to be a better person this time and that I would stop all this nonsense that haunts the more responsible side of my psyche with vague threats of turning into some version of David Hasselhoff eating a hamburger off of the kitchen floor. Pass.
And yes, I saw it fit to finally end that sentence.
Something about edging in on thirty makes me feel like taking a good long look at certain aspects of my life and uttering the classic (overused?) line from the Lethal Weapon Movies: I'm getting too old for this shit.
And before you get all huffy and puffy, I am not suggesting that thirty is old by any means. I'm not a lunatic. But I think it is safe to say that twenty eight is right around the time in a young gal's life when she should begin distancing herself from the guilded age-esque party girl lifestyle. Like who do I think I am, Zelda Fitzgerald? No thanks. Sign me up for some good old fashion adult willpower please.
Of course, any time I swear up and down that I am on the road to self-improvement, I feel a bit like Liz Lemon making grand and empty promises about this being the year that she will finally finish her quilt and get her life together. Will I actually succeed in following through with these things? If I was going to be honest with myself I would say: answer unclear ask again later.
I have made some progress, though. As I'm sure you can all recall, I began exercising regularly with Fur Michaels as of this time last year (although there was some considerable slippage in the fall courtesy of those sixteen hour work days). I've also managed to abandon my tub of Pillsbury frosting and box of kraft mac and cheese diet and transition into something less diabetes inducing. (Complete with Kale!)
But despite my strides in some areas, I'm still struggling in others.
I need to work on buying smarter and less often. I am kind of the queen of overshopping and letting all my vegetables rot. So really, I'm queen of compost. Except that my compost pile is a shameful Los Angeles trash can whose contents probably get dumped into the ocean and kill dolphins. So really really, I'm a dolphin murder. It's a problem. And try as I might, I haven't manage to do much better in the whole not going to grocery store everyday and spending at least $30 each visit department.
But don't worry, starting in a week, I plan to frequent the grocery store only twice a month to buy ingredients for planned dinners. Do you hear that?! Planned! Dinners! And I've put the fresh veggie heavy meals in the beginning of the week so we will have minimal wiltage. I would show you my flow chart but it would only embarrass you by its awesomeness. That would be a first for this blog...
I also fairly obviously need to work on two other things, which are really things I need to work on all the time: not having such a persistent brattitude and not overindulging like an bandit.
As nature or fate would have it, I love me a scowl and a glass of red wine. It's just who I am. But just because it's who I am does not mean it's who I have to be. That may or may not have been a line from the movie Honey...
Hmm...this particular post is a little reference-heavy...
Regardless, I am trying to practice some self-restraint and to trade at least fifteen of my scowls for one or two smiles or half smiles or, at the very least, dim positive thoughts. It seems to be working mostly.
To be perfectly frank, I've had 100% success rate on the restraint front and maybe a 4% on the not being a bovine front. Check back with me in a fifty years and maybe it will have nudged to a 7% by then. Or not. I still haven't quite managed to stop myself from asking questions during movies that I (and my fellow movie watcher) have never seen before and that's been annoying people since 1986.
And this doesn't really have anything to do with anything but I maybe just impulsively decided to chop six inches off my hair (that has been long since before graduate school) and I maybe reacted like one of the girls from America's Next Top Model being told to shave their heads. And I also maybe felt a little bit like Jo from little women, except that my long glorious locks were lopped off for far less noble reasons. On the plus side, the hair dresser from the salon asked to keep a lock of my hair because "the color was cool" and she wanted to see if she could recreate it with hair die. So.......win?