It seems easier to be optimistic today than it was two weeks ago when I discovered that for the second time this year, I would need to move. This time, maybe more than a block. This time, to a one-bedroom apartment that I probably can’t afford because I spend all my money on food and Bar Method classes and that new dress at Anthropologie that will probably go on sale in three weeks, but I can’t wait that long because I have to have it now.
(And the shoes and earrings that match too.)
But instead of fretting about where I’m going to be living on February 1st and whether I’ll be lonely living by myself or love not having to worry about my roommates using (and breaking) my special pink stemmed wine glasses, I feel oddly compelled to let myself pretend that the number on the calendar is more than just a number. I want to sigh with relief and subscribe to the belief that whatever ailed me in 2009 will now just be a fuzzy memory, a dust bunny in the furthest corner under my bed.
“Out of sight, out of mind,” as the cliché goes.
I also want to believe that I will become my version of “better” this year – professionally, personally and spiritually. Yet, even with this essentially unsubstantiated hope, I don’t feel obligated to make any concrete resolutions. And despite my desire to be “in” with whatever crowd I’m not currently “in” with (the consequence of being an overalls-wearing outsider in high school), I don’t feel compelled to join the ranks of food bloggers who are participating in Recipe Girl’s Ten in 10 (Ten weeks to healthy in 2010).
Of course, given my recent dessert confessions, I probably should be resolving to pull the plug on my sugar addiction. And my precious desk drawer-o-chocolate. And the ice cream bonbons that are always (briefly) hibernating in my freezer.
But, I’m not.
And I’m not planning to become fluent in French or finish a triathlon or read War and Peace either.
Instead, I’m going to move forward in 2010 with hope, but no specific plan or agenda for self-improvement. I’m going to savor my post-lunch See’s scotchmallow without guilt, read chick lit novels that undermine my intelligence and give me false expectations about the true nature of love, and learn all the words to the “Glee” soundtrack so I can sing-along when I’m driving to work.
And I’m going to cook -- recipes that I’ve tagged in my new Bon Appétit cookbook and Orangette’s A Homemade Life. I’m going to use the pizza stone my brother and sister-in-law gave me for Christmas (possibly to make a pizza that isn’t frozen), and I’m going to come up with another great dish that involves quinoa.
Will these sessions in the kitchen make me better? Make me more successful, richer, more desirable to the opposite sex that, by the way, is supposed to be declaring their undying love for me by holding up a boom box playing Peter Gabriel outside my bedroom window?
Most likely not.
But they will make me happy. Because nothing has brought me more joy in 2009 than sharing my adventures about cooking, dining out with friends and scouring the city for that perfect piece of chocolate. Whatever happens this year – whatever highs and lows await (ideally more highs than lows), I resolve to keep doing what I’m already doing.
Having fun. And spending way too much money on food.