It's 6:16pm on a Wednesday and I haven't brushed my teeth yet. And I had a lot of garlic last night. I was told - several times - that it's not a pleasant scent. But here I lie, simmering in my dirty breath in all my semi-employed glory.
This seems as good a time as any to confess: I've been a little lost, and a lot lazy. And I'm really, really sick of it, even more sick of this irreverent trend of smashing two words together and trying to turn them into real words that actual literate people use. Like solopreneur. Or let's say, hybriwords. No more please.
Twenty-two months ago, I left a stable, respectful career in non-profit management to live a more creative, more adventurous, more fulfilled life. I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do or how it'd become my reality, but I knew it was time and I believed I could do it. There was going to be hiking of big mountains and spelunking, and lots of creative projects with rusted cars and too much salt and funky hand lettering, and my own brilliant, successful business that would pay for all my flights and art supplies.
But I haven't done it. I haven't figured out how to live my dream life but more than that, I haven't really tried. Yes, I've done some stuff. When it's too hard to face my self-induced failure, I list out all the things I have done that required brushing my teeth and leaving the house: took a bunch of writing classes, did a few readings, wrote and performed part of a solo play, traveled to Ireland, started to work at a local non-profit, took Creative Live classes (wait I didn't have to leave the house for those), attended workshops on starting small businesses and designing labyrinths and professional cuddling and living an unconventional life. Classes, workshops, retreats, conferences. So many of them.
I almost bought a $700 ticket to Charlotte this weekend to attend a writers workshop, lest I stay at home and actually write. But it's time. Right? Finally, really this time. To stop worrying about how bad the writing will be or crappy the wannabe art will come out or how big the failure will hurt. To stop feeling inspired by all the work other people are doing, just enough to keep my own dreams alive, and then succumb to cravings for fried chicken and french fries and just one-two-ok three more episodes of Shameless.
So, I think a challenge is in order. 30 days has a nice one-month ring to it, but I hear it takes 40 to change a habit. Let's do 37, I like that number, I'd make out with that number. 37 days, every day a step away from self-loathing and a step closer to being the person I know is hiding underneath all this garlic breath. It's time.