As most people do during the first week of January, I celebrate a little holiday ritual. With a sharp deep breath I open my new calendar and let the pages riffle like a fresh pack of playing cards. The potential of those moments whizzes past in a blur, and the desire to make a list overcomes me. I grab a pen. It may also be an act of arrogance.
Most people have at least two or more goals.
My own imperfections are so many and so varied that they require a system of categorization. They require, in short, a long list. Sometime in my 30s, I became a person who made lists. Became is not the correct word because it implies that one day I just picked up a sheet of paper and began, which was not so. Now, I cannot stop.