We all know 2020 sucked. No one had a good year. A global pandemic and deportation? How much bullshit does the universe need to throw at me?
But I came out of it. I survived 315 days (and counting) on my own. I haven’t let the bills fall behind. Nor have I starved the cats. Instead, I’ve cleaned out the house, and I’ve handled most of the sale of it. I bought a truck. While I’ve gained weight, as have a lot of people this year, I didn’t give up my workouts.
“This year gave us strength, maybe next year will give us happiness”.
the weather reporter on my local news yesterday morning
Shawshank tells me I was strong to do what I’ve done, that I am strong to keep going. Things could be worse.
As trite as it is, how overused, I want this year to really be a “new year, new me” sort of thing. Yesterday was my last day at work. I don’t need to set an alarm anymore. A lot of the patients were genuinely upset to hear I was leaving, and at least a few of them actually teared up at the news. Almost all of them told me I’ll be missed. Over the last couple of weeks, I realized that I’ll miss a lot of them. There’s a lot more who I’ll miss compared to the number that I won’t.
Last night, my mother asked me what I planned to do with myself now that I won’t have anyplace to be.
“I’m going to teach myself to juggle”, I replied. She nervously let out a laugh that combined both “hahah, funny girl” with a heavy undercurrent of wondering if I thought this was a viable career choice.
I’ve been strong for a year. I’ve been juggling this kuddelmuddel of a life against my will for 315 years. I need a break for a little while. Let me juggle something smaller for a few months before the next adventure begins.
Happy new year, everyone.
