I don't like goals.
I generally don't make them because, once made, they sit there taunting me. They know I will fail. I know I will fail. Let's just all agree that we're just not even going to bother, okay?
I've written about this before. In 2015, I had high hopes. I mean, not really that high. I was going to read some of the books in my house before bringing in new ones. I was going to read Middlemarch. I was going to buy new makeup and revise my NaNoWriMo novel.
Well, at least I threw out the old makeup. Come to think of it, it's probably time to do that again.
My point is, setting goals simply means more guilt. More despair. More self-loathing.
Who needs that, in December or at any other time of the year?
But it's the end of the year, so I'll share good news. Not goals met, but a fervent wish about to come true.
On December 13th, I'm heading back to England for a week to spend time with my oldest. They are finishing their study abroad semester in London and we are going to have a blast seeing historic sites and museums and wandering the city's streets. We will take in a Shakespeare play at the Globe and hopefully we'll take a side trip to Stratford-upon-Avon.
Since I was a little kid, all I wanted was to go to England, the place where all the cool stuff I read about happened: land of King Arthur and his knights, birthplace of Shakespeare, realm of medieval kings and queens, countryside of the rabbits of Watership Down, doorway to Narnia...
And now I'll be going there a second time.
No matter how many goals I failed to meet this year, I cannot be unhappy.
Hope your holidays are joyful, whatever you celebrate, wherever you are.