Monday, January 1, 2007

Letter to 2007

So, we finally meet. This is what you look like.

In the 365 days you and I will have together, I want to spend time with my friends and talk to them over dinner and laugh and get to see each member of my family more than once. I want to travel extensively, read voraciously, watch good television, watch good movies and go to bed early. I want to feel productive. I want to work hard. I want to plant flowers in my backyard and use the grill we got last year to make gorgonzola stuffed figs wrapped in prosciutto. I want to swim and ride my bike and go for hikes, eat chocolate and popcorn and be a good wife.

I don’t want you to be the bearer of answers to any of the big questions. No philosophy, please. I don’t care to know why I’m here, what my purpose is, or what happens after we die. I don’t want anything to occur that would make anyone marvel at how lucky I was.

What I want is routine. I want to get up every morning at the same time and go to work. A perfect day will be uneventful. If all days line up homogeneously, looking more or less the same to the point I can barely tell them apart, I won’t be bored. I’ll be grateful. I won’t ask myself if there is more to life than this. I don’t need anything dramatic to help me realize how fortunate I am. I already know.

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