I admit to feeling rather rudderless since the New Year. Last year turned out to be all about self-improvement and physical health. But the sense of purpose and satisfaction that it once gave me is long gone.
I had chalked it up to general malaise, but I am increasingly aware that I am drifting through my days on autopilot. I am coming to hate the routineness of my days, which means I have to find the 2008 project that will keep me merrily plugging along for the next 11 months.
In January I went through a brief cupcake phase wherein I was turning out two dozen of the sugar-laden beauties every weekend. But a cupcake hobby is, sadly, a one way trip back to fat-assery so I'm going to have to give them a rest for a while.
I then took up with a non-caloric form of junk: reading trash. All the lowbrow crap at the library that you wouldn't give a second glance, I've been carting away by the canvas bagful. Things like Why Men Marry Bitches and That Extra Half an Inch: Hair, Heels and Everything in Between by none other than Victoria "Posh" Beckam herself. I think I'm one small step away from barricading myself in my bathroom to read shampoo bottles.
Since I found eating or reading crap made has made me feel no more alive or engaged, I'm going back to the basics. I'm dusting off the music and books of my formative years. I plan to spend my lunch breaks and lazy afternoons rereading Camus and Rand and Emerson to see if their ideas retain any of their former power and weight.
I also grabbed a random sampling of CD's from the dusty recesses of my bookshelves and added them to my player. I spent this morning on the van with the Dead Kennedys , Big Black , and Fugazi in my ears reminding me of what I was like before I cared about the future.
I'm coming to realize that life isn't short, it's damn long. So, I guess I better dig a deeper foxhole.