Right now, the insides of my head look like a piece of paper that an untalented three year-old has taken crayon to. Swirly, swirly, swirly patterns that make no sense and quite a lot of mess, and probably veer off onto the table so any minute now you're going to yell mean things at me for ruining the antique furniture.
See: unresolved childhood issues.
I wasn't kidding when I said 2012 was the year of Fulfilling My Potential. So I write lists. I have a nine-box, twenty-seven bullet point overall list for the year, and on the first of every month I sit down and plan out one thing for each of the twenty-seven bigger things I can do over those next 30 days to make a hearty step towards the bigger goal.
THEN every Sunday night I sit down and write a list for the week. This list is divided into urgent, important, and in my own time. This means my energy is focussed on ticking off what is absolutely necessary, and if there is any time left I move on to the important stuff, then the not-so-important-just-right-now stuff. PRIORITIES, PEOPLE. Also, anal retentive tendencies despite the mess.
The idea is that I'm not supposed to Do All The Things, but recognise what is important and what isn't. Theoretically, everything from the important list should move into the urgent list the following week, and the in my own time list moves to important. Anything that stays on the list for longer than three weeks obviously isn't important at all, and so gets dropped like a C-list celebrity on a televised desert island.
I have become a bit list-obsessed. And by 'a bit' I mean unless an activity is planned, scheduled, and written in black ball point pen under one of three headings, I freak out and get sweaty of palm and white of face. I've become this methodical, logical, PREPARED human being to the extent where I'm all WOAH. LAST-MINUTE TRIP TO THE BEACH? I CAN'T DO THAT IF IT ISN'T ON THE LIST. Then I hunt out my good pen, the one that writes really fancy, and write down 'Last-minute trip to the beach' under one of the headings and then in my diary, and it is all okay again so I search out a headscarf and get tanning.
Phew. Close call.
So now I am in this predicament whereby I can see my progress even after only 12 weeks of behaving like a 1950's housewife with too much time on her hands. I've written almost all of My Heart Beats Only For You (And a Few Dozen Other People), blogged twice a week, run loads (until a knee injury stopped me), started a Pilates class, given up Coke with lunch, switched sandwiches for salad, read more, seen more films, written to more friends and family, spent less time on Facebook and generally been a more awesome version of myself. Like that's possible.
But I also see the looming black pit of planning doom I am lurching towards where essentially, I am somebody's mother. And I feel helpless to stop it. It's a swirly, swirly, swirly mind-fuck conundrum of THE LISTS ARE TAKING OVER MY LIFE versus BUT THE LISTS MAKE ME LIVE MY LIFE SO MUCH BETTER! And basically, the only solution I have is to write 'Stop freaking out' under the urgent part of this week's list and have done with it.
Or possibly, instead of Stop freaking out I think I mean Be less weird. Like, for serious, BRAIN. Be less weird.