I used to make plans with myself. Plans to travel, change my wardrobe, lose weight, hug my grandmother more often, drink less alcohol, and so on. Some of those plans were outlandish. Write a bestseller. Accept an Oscar. Some were so simple. Learn how to roast a chicken. Buy matching socks. Delete that ex’s number. Sometimes it all seems so trivial.
I used to make lists. Grocery lists. Chore lists. Errands to run. Stuff that needed to get done. People to visit, emails to reply to, goals I wanted to reach and people who needed gifts. Somewhere in dumpsters and landfills sit hundreds, maybe thousands of lists I’ve made over the years. Lists I mostly never did anything with.
I used to make promises. Promises like I’ll call more often. I’ll eat healthier. I’ll start that new habit. I’ll stop smoking. I do. I’ll never leave. I’ll never stop loving you. But I did. Years after you stopped loving me.
And in that moment, I stopped making plans, stopped making lists and stopped making promises.
Instead, I made coffee.