High on the list of things I don’t typically do is make lists of things to do. I’m talking about physical, hieroglyphical representations of goals, resolutions, and – least of all – plans. I come from a long line of not-planners and proudly, but ridiculously, uphold the banner that is, to be frank (…and. I. Am.), my birthright.
And then I married a list maker. Bless her heart – she’s really good at it, and she gets results.
My 39th birthday was last Monday. I make a big deal about getting older because I am vain. For no reason.
Early on my 39th bday, the pack was on it’s pack run when my wife said to me, she said, “What are your goals for the next year?”
Sidebar – Germans do birthdays big in a way that Americans do not understand. Hugs. From strangers. Vigorous handshakes. LOTS of free beverages. Americans say, “Yo, HBD, MF.” Germans congratulate you for making it through another year, and then squeeze you, and wish you health and good luck and best wishes, and a desire that you make it through another year, and then they buy you booze. It’s better than Facebook.
So I’m having a great birthday. We had colleagues over, I made cupcakes. There was cake and the best Club Sandwich in the History of the World, and more Pilsner than I can remember. But early in the day <FLASH SIDEWAYS>…
…the pack was on it’s pack run when my wife said to me she said, “What are your goals for the next year?” <SCREECHING NOISE>
Now, there are moments that I delve into fights with my wife that are based in my absolute desire to reject the sense that she is making. I DONT MAKE LISTS. This was in the VOWS. I think. And I got this far not making lists so I couldn’t be pissed when I didn’t complete anything on the list.
So, I made a list. Personal and professional. I have been looking at it everyday. It’s obtainable and surpassable. And reasonable, which is totally anathema to the crest of my upbringing.
It’s also terrifying. If I can complete this list – and there are only seven items on it – I will be farther than I have been on every scale.