When we first decided to move to Nashville and were making all these big plans about how we would do it and dreaming all these big dreams about what we would do once we did do it, I had this back of the mind idea that maybe I would become a winter person here. The kind of person who revels in layering on sweater after sweater and scarves and all the hats and who would even be willing to go for a nice leisurely walk in this crisp, cool winter of my dreams.
It made sense; I would be in a city with nearby mountains, a geographic area where four seasons do indeed exist (or so I was told), and besides, Tennessee was just more north than Texas so surely there would be the kind of winter that came with snow and snow boots and general life lived during snowy weather. (A white Christmas, maybe? Just this once?) And I, having been transplanted to the middle of it, would somehow become a person who wouldn’t just live in it but look forward to it.
We are in day three of snow on the ground (patches of snow, but snow) and we are both just a little miserable. Oh, it was wonderful waking up Friday morning and watching the snow come down, sure. It was even a little fun when I thought I might get to walk in the snow to the nearest library branch for work (the branch closed and I still ended up driving.) But the heater has since broken and we have been wearing the same fleece-lined pants and socks for the past week and I’ve done as the song says and gone country wearing my old work boots over my jeans because it’s too cold to cover my feet any other way.
The best part is that the winter here is no worse or even different than the winters I had in Texas — it just seems like it should be. The other best part is that Christmas was a perfectly sunny seventy degree day and I loved it because I always have been and always will be a hot weather sun person. Please just let me sweat right now, I beg you.
This is no surprise. (Although I’ll be honest, I am really loving wearing my old cowboy boots mostly because it seems to really perturb my husband — Boots? Over the jeans?? Yes.) Of course, I would be miserable in the cold weather — it’s not in my nature to be comfortable in it.
Which oddly makes me think of the fact that I haven’t set any New Years resolutions. Mind you, I love a good New Years resolution. In fact, I love anything where I can make a change off a seemingly clean slate and pretend that all past transgressions are null and void, that life begins tomorrow, that the present will take place at an agreed upon time between past me and future me and everything between now and then is just mardi gras.
I argue with my husband over his lack of resolution-making, his seeming aversion to self-improvement, but really, he’s just always been a little more honest than I am. It’s in my nature to make the goals. And it’s in my nature to abandon them the moment I fail to adhere with perfection. I know this about myself. And yet.
But this year, with all the changes whiplashing us both around, my godawful yearning to just be able to go to the grocery store while daydreaming, January 1st came and went without me even making so much as a list of what I’d like to do with myself.
I realized this yesterday. Appalled, I quickly dashed out some uninspired ideas — meditate daily, buy local, eat organic, exercise three times a week and so on and so forth and god, how boring.
Meanwhile, I have a stack of books next to my chair in the living room that I am supposed to read, that I wanted to read at one point and now that I’ve checked them out, I must read them even if they have since lost their luster. I sit in the chair and begrudgingly open the one on top. My mind wanders to a Texas Monthly article a dear friend suggested I read last week, that I did actually read instead of dooming it to some “for the future” list because I was stuck in the car for several hours and to have physical entrapment at the same time as mental entrapment is too much even for me. (I do let myself live sometimes.)
It was a story about Larry McMurtry, an author I know I would love if I just read his stuff , whose book, Lonesome Dove, has always been a book I’ve wanted to read. It’s been on my to-read list since 2009 when I hit my first must-have wilderness and cowboys craving and has been somewhere near the middle of the list ever since. It always gets beat out by the newer, shinier, must-read books that have been published this year, despite the ever-present longing to read it.
The article told me what I already knew — that the man was a Texas legend, a true native son, that I would love him if I read him, that I want to be like him when I grow up, and that he has a bookstore not two hours away from my old home in Texas that I knew was there and that I neglected to visit because I always had other things to do (like drink beer and spend whole days reading books I don’t even want to read anymore. Le sigh.)
I spend so much time making lists and goals and then shackling my own feet to the fire to meet those goals that I don’t even feel the burn coming on until it’s too late. I already waste enough time doing the things I have to do to live (like buy food and brush my teeth) — it’s nauseating to think of all the other ways I force myself into commitments and rules and plans that make no whit of difference to my contentment.
It’s odd how much we equate seeking contentment with actual contentment. If I just meditate every day, I’ll be happy. If I just exercise three times a week. If I just do the 30-day yoga revolution, the cleanse — if I just clean out my closet. But the truth is that we’re rarely any happier. We’re rarely happier because there’s always something else to change, to improve on, to erase about our lesser selves. There’s always something else we should be doing.
That’s not to say we shouldn’t try to better ourselves — I’m all about making a conscious effort to not be an asshole. But to create a mission around self-improvement that feels more like a military drill is to lose the point of the goal. It too easily becomes a lie you tell to yourself. I love winter weather, you say between shivering teeth. I’m content, goddamnit, as you reach for the disappointing kale you never wanted to eat.
So confound it with the lists. No more of them. I am hereby resisting the school of should. No more “I will do” and “I must do.” Only “I want to.” This has never been an easy feat for me, doing what I actually want to do. (Let me know if you’re the kind of person who can just do they want — a beer for your skills.)
If that’s a New Years resolution, then I apologize. But not too wholeheartedly. I’ll be too busy finally reading Lonesome Dove and planning a visit to Archer City.