Good Intentions

The Road to Hell

If the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I’ve got a 6-lane superhighway and I’m going 90 MPH. I have so many grand plans; I’d have to live to be a hundred and fifty to get everything accomplished. If I could do everything I intend to do, I’d be Mother Theresa, Danielle Steele and Oprah combined. And I’d have a fabulous figure, too. But if you saw the layer of dust on my Total Gym, you’d realize it ain’t gonna happen.
I don’t know why I can’t give up the dream of being a size 6. Or of writing the Great American Novel. It’s not that I want to save the world. A small goal like “eat healthy” seems doable. The lettuce, celery, cucumbers and kiwis look beautiful in the grocery store. But a couple of weeks later when the crisper drawer is filled with slimy green soup, I think, “Well, that’s another good intention down the drain. Let’s go to McDonald’s.”
And as I’m eating my burger and fries, the thought drifts in that someday, I really will write that book. I used to have a full-time job, so I couldn’t write then. And then I got laid off my job, and felt like I had to be “Super Housewife,” so I couldn’t write then. And then I went to full time to college, so I couldn’t write then. And then I got another job, so I couldn’t write THEN. So I quit my job so I could write. But I couldn’t write then because……I ran out of excuses…And found out how hard it is to transform intentions into reality.
My husband, God love him, is a doer. Every Saturday morning, right after coffee and a dog walk, gets out a pencil & paper and makes a list. He writes down “walk,” “wash the car,” “build an armoire for the living room,” etcetera, and then spends the day rushing around actually doing this stuff, crossing tasks off the list as he completes them. I’ve tried the list method. It just makes me feel guilty. I do a few things, and then run off to lunch with my sister or something, and never get back to the list.
I never learned self-discipline as a kid. I was the youngest of five children, and by the time my mom was raising me, she was pooped out. I tried all types of lessons while I was growing up—piano, violin, tap dance—but when I got bored or lazy, Mum would let me quit. Why didn’t I inherit the “stick-to-it gene?” Why are some people driven and some are not?
My sister has two sons. She raised them the same way. But Rob is a high-powered lawyer and Ryan is a baggage handler for Southwest Airlines. Not that one is better than the other, but Rob seemed to be born with the drive to succeed. At eight years old he decided to go to Stanford, and worked hard to attain that goal. Ryan went to college on the 6-year plan, and never really decided what he wanted to be when he grew up. He’s always been content with “whatever” and drifted along. It’s not that I wish I could be a Rob. I’d just like to drink a little of the same water he does, so I could get done the things I’ve been meaning to do.
But that to-do list is soooo long I don’t know where to begin. Besides the Total Gym covered in dust, I’ve got a great computer that’s only used for e-mail and Ebay, a sewing machine with a half-done Halloween quilt draped over it, recipes clipped but never tried, an electronic piano that can’t seem to play anything but “Fur Elise,” and a library of books that I’ve only read the first ten pages of. Not to mention the 15 boxes of photos to be put in albums, the Mount St. Helens of ironing, and the Amazon jungle of weeds in the backyard. Besides, weeds grow back and clean underwear always takes precedence over novel writing.
I started this essay more than two years ago. It’s been a joke that I have “good intentions” to finish my essay on good intentions. So now you’re hoping that I’ll say that I bought those Anthony Robbins motivational tapes and I’m a whirlwind of activity—on my way to a Pulitizer prize. Nope. Sorry. And I’m too old now to be called a prodigy. Luckily for me there’s no time limit on being a “late bloomer.” I figure I’ll be the Grandma Moses of writers. And be wearing adorable size 6 polyester stretch pants.