I’ve noticed something in the time that’s elapsed since I started this blog in January. I’m a million times more likely to do something if I announce to someone — anyone, even if it’s just into the ether — that I’m going to do it. It’s one thing to make a promise to myself, but quite another to leave a proclamation somewhere… a tangible marker someone could conceivably come back to in the future, point to and say, “Uh, Aim? Remember this? How’s it coming?”
Time management has become a wild and wooly issue for me lately. If you saw the post I spilled out a few weeks back about being a night owl and the admissions I made even earlier about wanting very badly to pull off the whole freelance writing thing for good, you’ve probably figured out I have a tendency to shoot myself in the foot. I promise too much, underestimate cost, overestimate how much time is left in any given day or week, overcaffeinate, undersleep, rely too much on carbs and don’t work out like I should. I’m also pretty sure I now officially have high blood pressure. At some point, I’ll have to get myself in gear and strike a balance. But again, no complaints from this girl. I wouldn’t trade this life for anything — I love the work I’m doing and the ideas I’ve got up my sleeve. Still, one thing I will absolutely do more of in the very near future — no excuses — is volunteer. I used to work in the nonprofit realm, and it was my job to encourage other people to give their time and energy to worthy causes, yet here I sit on my tush, not doing that at all myself even though I’m my own boss. So, enough. A few years ago, I adopted a “go big or go home” philosophy, and there’s still plenty of frontier I haven’t ventured into. I think I’ll start by doing something that scares me half to death.
For the first time in my life, I’m giving blood. Now, while that may be no big whoop to the average person, let me be clear: I’m not the average person. I’m a baby. A big, fat, spoiled, pampered, whiny little baby. I am deathly afraid of needles, doctors’ offices, doctors’ lobbies, doctors’ parking lots, driving to the doctor, getting ready to drive to the doctor, thinking about going to the doctor… you get it. That stuff freaks me out to the point where I’m basically a dude. Antibiotics be damned — I’d rather sit out a cold for weeks than cave in and let someone look in my ears and take my temperature. Know why I never got braces? Because in middle school, as I was leaving the orthodontist’s office after getting spacers to prep me for the procedure, I straight-up passed out cold on the lobby floor. I cried so hysterically all the way home that my parents finally threw their hands up and relented. So listen – this may not be a big deal to most people, but it’s a crazy big deal for me. And since I’m writing it here, I can’t back out.
Deadline: my next birthday. April 16. And you can best believe I won’t be showing my face here again if I don’t live up to it.
So, yes — this week’s post is less a writing exercise and more an opportunity for you to help hold my feet to the fire. I’m a lucky girl with an amazing little life. There’s no reason I can’t give something I’ve got in abundance to someone who really, really needs it.
Someone please remind me of that when I’m white-knuckling the armrest inside the bloodmobile, trying my best not to hit the deck, ‘k? Because god help us, I’m already getting dizzy.