Where there's hope, there's life. It fills us with fresh courage and makes us strong again. - Anne Frank
As the month of January comes to a close, I’ve had to work pretty hard to convince myself that 2022 is going to be a good year.
Not an easy feat considering that I’ve already had to sit with HR to provide a formal record of a racially-driven slur that I had been the unfortunate recipient of. While all I had to do was provide an account of the exchange, engaging with HR and knowing that formal procedures would need to be implemented around disciplinary action was enough to cause a devastatingly restless night of tossing and turning.
I’m also reeling from thirty-eight hours of having my water supply cut off due to sheer incompetence. I wish that there was more to that. Like some extensive back story with a dramatic twist of some sort, but it really was just because of incompetence. Some supposed expert was meant to do a job that they were undoubtedly paid handsomely for but instead failed miserably to even carry out what should require a fundamental skill in their respective trade.
I could probably come up with a few more credible reasons as to why my 2022 is turning out to be just another round of 2020, but then I’d be forced to give up on the infinitesimal glimmer of hope I have that this year won’t be as unbearable as the past two years have been.
So I’m going to continue to believe that this year will be better. I’m going to plan trips that I’ve been wanting to take for the past twenty-four months to postcard-worthy lands so idyllic that you’d need to pinch yourself just to make sure that what you’re seeing is real.
I’m going to quietly venture into quaint bookstores in search of literary treasures to relish on lazy Sunday afternoons when others are wallowing over the looming work week.
I’m going to steadfastly work through my beginners sewing course and try to finally sew a straight line while fighting off feelings of frustration that come with learning something new which in this case is also coupled with constantly pricking yourself with nasty sewing pins.
As foolish as it may seem to some people, I’m going to live in hope. The alternative is far scarier and I don’t quite think that there’s enough of gin in the world to go down that road.
Btw updates:
My hair is mostly back to normal after that ridiculous hair fiasco. It's here if you missed it.
I can now sew a not so attractive but usable drawstring bag.
I have now officially served my first ever 3 month notice period. Utterly exhausting and not recommended for any age group.