The Future Is Never What It Once Was

Greetings and Salutations, Five People Who Occasionally Read This Blog:

Happy 2010! I very much hope the new decade is treating you well thus far. I also hope none of you are suffering from scalp itch caused by cardboard HAPPY NEW YEAR crowns. 

Included on my list of sham resolutions is a committment to blog at least once a week all year. This is due to the depressing realization that in a mere four months, I will be the same age at which Helen Fielding published “Bridget Jones’s Diary.” For the past 13 years, whenever anxiety about my many life failures overwhelmed me, I took solace in thoughts of Helen Fielding. No matter how old I was, she was still older when she wrote this genre-spawning piece of literature.  That meant I still had time to accomplish “something.”

You may be wondering why I focused on Helen Fielding.  Sure, the Bridget Jones books are funny, and the endearing protagonist gets to go to a Tarts & Vicars party.  But, as Jan would say, “Literary masterpieces they forgot to be.”  Still, there were limited realms in which I could possibly accomplish “something,” especially as time went by. It was always totally unrealistic to think I would one day cure cancer, revolutionize the world of high finance or discover another line of australopithecus afarensis. But each passing New Year’s Eve wiped out more and more of the remotely realistic options. (Which is why I despise this particular holiday.) It was too late to be an editorial assistant at Entertainment Weekly or comedy writer. Then it was too late to work my way up from NBC page, and then it was too late to be a creative type at a big ad agency.  And then, I found out after a series of ill-fated interviews for jobs that hadn’t even existed a few years ago, it was just too late in general.  2010 marks 20 YEARS since I graduated from high school. (Special shout out to all my Spiffy High peeps: NB, RS, SSC, JFL, JD, TTC, DB and of course, our super-cute class president and homecoming king.)

So you see, my last best hope for doing “something” has always been, and will always be, writing.  I could always name tons of writers who’d published stories and books and articles (in media outlets people actually paid to read) when they were much younger than me. Helen Fielding was long the only one I could think of who hadn’t done my personal “something” until she was older than me.  But that’s almost not true anymore, and I can’t give up my last best hope yet.

I’m not sure I can rely on the good and mockable people of New York to provide me with 52 weeks worth of blog-worthy material. So from time to time, I may have to stray from the official “Letter T” M.O. a smidge, but I will do my best to keep my loyal fans entertained.

For those who aren’t privy to my incessant Facebook updates, I leave you with a sample of my other sham resolutions.

  • Stop picking cuticles
  • Join and go to gym
  • Develop enviable fashion savvy
  • Go to bed earlier
  • Wake up earlier
  • Be prompter
  • Wash hair every day
  • Reign in insatiable need to say negative things about annoying people (except here, of course)
  • Be more thankful
  • Be more patient
  • Regain crossword prowess
  • Be a better person/daughter/sibling/friend/girlfriend/employee/stuffed moose caregiver

*Please note I did not actually make up the name of this post. I heard it on MSNBC earlier today.  MSNBC, please don’t sue me.

The Future Is Never What It Once Was