Of lists and listlessness

I like making lists. It gives me a sense of being in charge. That there is a plan and I am on the right track. With all the lists that I make, you would think I am superbly organised, conscientious, meticulous...I am not.

That’s because I always lose the list. So I try and wing it.

Like packing for a holiday, for instance. I make a list (and check it twice) and then lose it so I then just throw in stuff. It explains why I always forget to pack emergency tooth floss (in case I lose the first one in flight turbulence)...kidding. The emergency floss is always hidden in the pink sock.

But the point I’m trying to make is lists help me, especially since therapists charge by the hour.
Whenever I go through the “what-am-I-doing-with –my-life” phase, I make a list of all the things I should do; all the places I should visit in my lifetime; ways to rob a bank and fund my travels; books to read; books to write and all is right again. Maybe the lists distract me from the real issues (what am I doing with my life?) and by the time I’m done the momentary melancholy has passed. So recently when I was faced with life’s problems yet again, I decided to make a list that I would actually do something about.

My life of late seems to be a series of bad days trying to outdo themselves.

Seriously.

So while I’m drowning in misery and drama, life seems to have gone by, jauntily at that (please get all analogies and metaphors, otherwise my feeble attempts at being a writer would die in a glorious blaze of shame and leave me feebler still). And I’m still trying to dust off from my last fall when I suddenly realised that I am nearing 30 and not happy to die.

Okay let me clarify, I am not actually dying, but it is death...in principle, that I’m turning a ripe old age. Now before you start making judgments on me and my reluctance (read vain insecurities) at entering the dreaded thirties, that I am a superficial, almost middle-aged woman relying on looks to give meaning to life, yes you would be right! But behind the anti-aging creams and crow-feet hiding concealer, there is a sudden, almost-frenzied (read crazy) need to have something to show for before I hit that speed bump.

So I made a bucket list. Things I need to cross off before I die or hit 30 (whichever happens first).

My philosophy in life (I have a couple so brace yourselves, I know it’s presumptuous of me to address my readers in plural, when it’s probably just one loyalist, (hi Ma), but my blog, so my grammatical assumptions) is to die happy; sounds simple enough but, in actuality, quite a mean feat to achieve. How many of us, if we die today/tomorrow, will go content, having achieved all that we had set out to, or at least part of it?

I don’t even know all that I want to achieve, so here’s my list of things I need to do (I will most certainly be adding to the list):

1. Go to Paris
2. Learn a language or more accurately finish learning a language
3. Drive (go beyond first gear)
4. Live abroad
5. Swim in the deep end
6. Learn patience
7. Finish all the books I’ve been meaning to read (a separate list)
8. Get fit
9. Learn to have faith (in people/beliefs/universe) something
10. Own something valuable (land/house/car/puppy/Macbook Pro/iPad)
11. Start a blog (Yay I can cross one thing off; one step closer to dying happy! )
12. Win the Booker (this probably means I have to get serious about the whole writing thing)

So apparently I have 575 days, which is one year, six months and twenty-six days to achieve all that I have set out to achieve.

Good luck to me!