I’ve always been an effective goal-setter. I always need a project to work on, some way to measure success. Something I can point at and say “This is what I’m doing right now. And, when I do it, I’ll have made progress in my life.” These goals have, traditionally, been academic in nature; sometimes literally academic — this is how I have way more degrees than any reasonable person could ever expect to utilize — and sometimes more figuratively, like landing a job or growing a website or making a certain amount of money. I reached a point recently where I didn’t have any goals. It was terrifying. I have no capacity to just be comfortably. To simply exist. I don’t do it well. I get antsy and frustrated. I’m a forward progress person. I understand, intellectually, that this is not ideal, that those among us who are the happiest and most peaceful are those who are content with mere existence. But something in me fights it at its core, sneers at those who seem to be content with their status quo, who are not constantly reaching, clawing, fighting for more.
I remember an old episode of Behind the Music. It was about Britney Spears. They were interviewing someone who knew her in her elementary-school years. He talked about how Britney returned to school after Mickey Mouse Club got canned and was so confused as to how everyone else seemed totally content to just sing in the school choir in Louisiana. “That might work for you,” he quoted her as saying, “But it will not work for me.” That line stuck with me. At 26, I still relate strongly to a 12-year-old Britney Spears.
So I set a goal for myself: I decided to train for a half-marathon at the end of January. And as I work toward this goal, I realize that it’s almost more terrifying than not having a goal at all. I’ve always been an athletic person, but I’ve never really set athletic goals for myself. Sports are about teams and getting outside and getting exercise and having fun. I’ve never really had anything emotionally riding on my ability to achieve something physical. And I’ve never been someone to doubt my ability to achieve goals before now. But — seriously? Running 13.1 miles? Are you fucking kidding me? And, yet, people with far fewer physical blessings than I do it all time. Is that what makes this so terrifying? That it is, in my mind, a pedestrian goal? (Heh, no pun intended.) I’m not sure. But I do know I’m scared to death about this, and I have no idea how I’m actually going to do it, but I suppose that’ll make it even more awesome when I succeed, right? Right?
