Election year. The year after the nice halfway point in the decade. On the downslide. You have a lot to live up to. Movies aside (hello again, every super hero ever), it’s a big year. For me anyway. This is where I mark the start of the rest of my life. 2015 began and spent most of its time muddling around in university, which as we all know, isn’t real life.
So 2016 is a big one. My first real adulting year.
But I hate expectations. I’ve lived with them all my life, and I don’t like having them for other people. Except my students, where it counts. But for a year, it’s too much. I don’t expect anything out of this year. I want to be productive and feel joyful and bloomy and creative. I want to find love and a good church and start really exercising…but I put that on me, not this year. Otherwise next New Years I might look at a sad little blank list and feel guilty. I’m sorry, small scrap of paper sitting so forlornly.
So if this year is good or bad, it will be a year. Not a growing year or a normal year or any other adjective. Adjectives stink of expectations.
2016, may you be a year. If you are, you will be perfect.