Just Another Day
A year older and I made no plans. Very unlike the previous two years of big, (semi) organized parties. Went to work, came home to a house full of children, went to dinner with family.
Today I realized my birthday signaled the turning of an oversized hourglass.
In middle school, we made a long-term goal and filled out a sheet and the teacher had them all framed. Mine said I would have a book written by my birthday of 2011.
I have a year before I can officially call myself a failure.
I feel the sands of time slipping through my fingers and I don't know if I can do it.
So yeah. Since the beginning of my menstrual cycle, I've had “have a book written” as my goal - in a silver frame and everything. There are days I feel like I'm writing the Rachel Berry manifesto.
I spent a half hour digging through my things to MAKE SURE my deadline was as I remembered it. When the familiar frame emerged from the last box...it said 2021.
Well, shit. Off by ten years. I'm terrible with numbers. Sure gave myself plenty of legroom.
On the one hand, I like that I have more time to avoid personal failure. On the other, I'd like to think there's only a year left to prove my worth. I work best under pressure.