I like to tell myself I'm not the type to make New Year's resolutions; I give them a lengthier title like 'stuff I want to do this year' or 'things I want to get better at', but what the hell else are they, really?
So silly titles and personal prejudiced judgements aside, I am spending the last night of this year tucked quietly away at home by myself, with dogs and no pants, doing what I plan on doing more of in the new year:
Not planning on growing pumpkins; playing in my sketchbook.
I'm also nursing the dregs of a lovely cold the BD passed onto me for Christmas. It's not a lonely pity-party this evening, don't worry. I'm not really one for parties or staying up past 10pm (if I try). Of course, the evenings I get sucked into a good book or settle into a satisfying section of a knitting pattern, midnight comes easily and taps me on the shoulder with a gentle reminder that I should be in bed sleeping. I've given up trying to stay up to see the old year off. And when your husband works in the paramedic field, sickness and stupidity show up at all times of the year and need to be delivered to various locations to get sorted out. So Coltrane and I are on the couch, she's watching traffic go by and I'm sniffling, coughing and tapping away atop the keyboard, unleashing the last of the 2014 musings to the internet, like so many others this evening. Also, there is scotch.
The holidays were lovely. A break in routine and productivity is always good, but I'm ready to get back into the thick of it. Thank you for following along, reading my posts, commenting, emailing, saying nice things to me in person. If you didn't get a chance to do any of the things just mentioned and you wanted to, well, here's hoping we interact somehow in 2015.
Happy New Year.