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It’s the end of the year.
(As if that wasn’t obvious.)
I feel a little bit ill about entering 1998. Just a tad, more like an uncomfortable sensation than actually sick. It’s because I have vivid memories of 1988 and it just doesn’t seem like 10 years have passed since then. A decade. My car would’ve been 10 years old this year. (Listen to me talk about it like a child I gave up for a adoption.) I sold it. I think that in 1988 I had visions of what I would be as an adult. That I’m not what I expected is disappointing.
Time to get my butt in gear.
I am also feeling optimistic for 1998. Nineteen ninety-six and '97 were hard and I deserve a good year now. I’ve been in this foreign country for nearly two years; I’ve dealt with all the cultural adjustment crap, now I just want to live here.
Live.
I’ve got a little over one year left, and with the learned benefit of foresight, I realize that I will be much happier if I make the most of this last year living abroad.
We should travel.
I should work harder for the Women’s Center, cement connections there.
I need to take real steps toward graduate education for when I return to the States.
I learned one very valuable thing this last year: I am slothful and my life will be characterized by a struggle against it. It’s a big pill to swallow. Slowly, the realization has set in that if I don’t make a conscious effort to counter my inclination toward chronic indolence, I will not achieve my goals. I’m still young and it seems that there is always more time to do it later. But the realization of a decade passing and having already disappointed some of those goals is opening my eyes. I hope that in this next year I can rely on myself to do more, to accomplish tasks I set for myself, and leave the year like I might leave a day when I’ve checked off everything on my list: with satisfaction and fulfillment.
*sigh* And Exercise. What expression of hope for the new year doesn’t include more exercise?
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