Happy New Year to You, Too

What a girl should resoundingly never do on New Years' Eve is get drunk off champagne and try to piece together what the History Channel has to say about The Knight's Templar and Free Masonry while all too comfortably sitting in her mother's recliner. What a girl should resoundingly never do on New Years' Eve is resolve that the oh-so-riotous sequined top she very decidedly bought to showcase at a holiday party on the night of December 31st is left better off to step out on the town at a later date.

I should've known that living room laziness on the birth of the fresh year would only propel what's made a week and a half rut drive even deeper, so that I have become like a wheel wedged in a pothole, unable to pry out of the chipped pavement no matter how much pressure is applied to the pedal in the dire attempt to achieve acceleration.

In the New Year, I've baked double batches of five different kinds of cookies and apparently made a resolution to engorge myself on as many different kinds of chocolate as I could possibly dream up. I've filed and painted my nails canary yellow and drawn myself a bubble bath to get my creative juices flowing. I've gathered all the materials to redesign my inspiration board for 2011, but am patently too uninspired to decide what inspires me. I've planned my wedding, right down to the cake topper, centerpieces, and table themes. I've discovered whitening strips gathering dust in my bathroom cabinet and applied them to my to my upper and lower teeth, something that I haven't done since high school. I've gone on an aerobic walk through my neighborhood, up all the biggest hills and past all my favorite Victorian houses. I've done arm exercises while sizing up Oprah Winfrey's new Network, OWN, whose initials worked for her, as I'm sure you've heard. I've even gone so far as to watch the Lifetime Movie Network with my mother, in the hopes that witnessing melodrama would make me grateful for flat-out monotony. I've bought impractical heels, gone to the movies, and eaten Mexican for the first time in four months. I've read all my favorite blogs, updated my own, and looked at more Facebook photos than dough I've formed into two inch balls on pre-greased cookie sheets. I've started and stopped all too many activities, like cleaning my room, loading the dishwasher, making a list of resolutions, and reading that book I've been meaning to get to for years.

All of this, and I feel utterly unfulfilled, like I'm furrowing myself deep into the supposed comforts of rest and relaxation, and before I can poke my head back out from underground to be greeted by sunlight, I've realized that someone's kicked dirt over my nest of doing nothingness, and I can't dig my way out.

Obviously, I need a hobby. Or maybe some friends. Or a prod in the ass with one of those wrought iron pit pokers, heated in the hearth of meaningful productivity.