My Favourite Commitment: Resolutions And List Making
Every year, at the beginning of January, I write a ten-point resolution on paper, in earnest and painstaking penmanship. It’s quite different from my usual, quick, block-cursive type, which my friends find illegible, and which Mama admonishes as being a far cry from the handwriting I’d grown up using.
By February, said list gets pushed to the side. Replacing it will be the more “pressing” short-term goals, and to-do lists, of a daily or weekly nature: grocery shopping, school and professional deadlines, or - as in years past - reminders to call the bank to negotiate credit card fees for the previous December’s overspending.
By April, January’s impassioned paper resolution is a near-distant memory; for with the new season, I will have moved on to digital lists - bookmarking Internet style pages and book recommendations, and creating spring-summer fashion wish lists in the process.
These fashion lists are even more ardent than the first; for with the warmer clime comes a newfound resolve to do it all. And sometimes a list gets done: like buying the pair of checkered Stella McCartney trousers I’d been eyeing for some time, or the Calvin Klein button-up - both of which I got for half-off.
Most times, however, lists remain unfinished, which seem to set the tone for the rest of the year. Around May, when hunting for a birthday gift for myself - a photo book no doubt - I’ll have noticed that in my tiny, 250-square-foot apartment, books piled high, and mostly unread, tell the story of a list-maker gone mad. Where on Earth would I put another book, anyway? By the end of June, embarrassment turns to lassitude, and I’ll have conceded that despite the languor of summer, my lists are far too many and far too long; that it’s humanly impossible to do, read or acquire all that I’d written - not in a week, month, year or lifetime.
By September, defeat is abetted by two other negative emotions - anxiety and overwhelm. I’ll have counted the year as almost ended, and once again I’d been a flake: my January list was still undone and but a forlorn memory.
I know exactly how my list-making fascination began. When it became an obsession, though, is another story. When I was younger my mother had the habit of making lists. A little spiral-bound notebook recorded all the big-spend items she wanted for our home. “The little things that made a house a home, and to which every child should become accustomed,” she’d say.
For us kids, this little book, its pages worn beige by the passage of time, was like a talisman. For each item written within, in the careful cursive that was my mother’s, eventually made its way into our tiny bungalow home, as if by magic. As a nearing middle-aged adult, however, I’ve realised that my mom writing down her wishes, and achieving them, was more than mere manifestation. It took discipline and diligence. Certainly, years of failed resolutions have taught me that impressive promises are only as good as the work we put into action.
For 2021, I’ve made no ten-point plan. Instead, I’ve written a plan of action, measured by dates, to be audited by a few friends, who I’ve asked to be my accountability partners. Will I achieve the goals I set out for myself this year? Only time will tell. But I think I’m on my way.
Bonne année,
Mario
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