Yesterday I dropped off two enormous boxes at Goodwill.
Contents: mismatched dishes, ghetto pots and pans (i.e. sans Teflon), a buttload of clothes that I haven't worn in ages, old Christmas decorations that don't match my house anymore.
(Do you think "buttload" would count for "terms of measurement" in Scattergories? I would totally argue it.)
I was in a hurry. I still had to go grocery shopping (why am I always out of milk? SKIM, of course), pick up flowers for two friends, drop off air mattresses for two friends, and make it back in time to watch child of one friend.
I wanted to pull up, open my trunk, dispose of said boxes, and skidaddle.
But there was a LINE.
And when I say line, I say six-car-deep line. At the Goodwill Drop-off. True story.
And I couldn't for the life of me work up the smallest inkling of ire.
Isn't it amazing that regardless of race, religion, political preference or age, the start of the new year means renewal? It means cleaning out that (possibly metaphorical - most likely an actual) closet that's been bothering us for months. It means starting over. Trying again. Reviewing what we did or didn't do in the past year, and how we're going to do better. The New Year means hope. It means expectations. It means I'm really going to do it this time.
Even if it means waiting in line.