I’m addicted to my planner.
I freely admit this. It’s a Gooseberry Patch planner with colorful pages, charming illustrations and “fresh-from-the-farmhouse recipes and simple ideas to welcome you home!” I love this planner as if it were my offspring.
I freely admit this. It’s a Gooseberry Patch planner with colorful pages, charming illustrations and “fresh-from-the-farmhouse recipes and simple ideas to welcome you home!” I love this planner as if it were my offspring.
Flashback: when I was a toddler, my father wasn’t watching me on the playground and I bonked my head on the edge of a metal slide. I had to get stitches, and now there is a slight scar on my right eyebrow. My father still feels guilty to this day. Those are sentiments that I can now relate to, for one time I spilled water on my planner. The scars are visible on its water-warped pages…a constant reminder of my carelessness.
I know these feelings are unhealthy, and I know I need help. How it came to this, I don’t know. It was a gradual process, I suppose…
My senior year of high school is when I first remember using a planner hard core. I wrote in it with different colored pens for different classes and drew cute doodle and illustrations. Precious. However, I was still a mild user at this time. There would be weeks where my planner was a nuclear warzone of pen, checkboxes and highlighting, and other weeks where it resembled a peaceful forest clearing. I guess you could say me and my planner had an on-again, off-again relationship. Think Kid Rock and Pam Anderson.
During my freshman year of college, things escalated. My planner became my everything. Every single little iota of information regarding my life was recorded. At times, I literally wrote down my daily schedule hour-by-hour. Pathetic, I know. Hundreds of X’d-off boxes dotted the pages. You know you have a serious problem when you create boxes for things you’ve already done just so you can get the high off of X-ing them off. Brush teeth? X. Make bed? X. Q-tip my ears? X. Obviously, this relationship had become an unhealthy one. Think Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards. Well, actually, think Charlie Sheen and anybody.
However, good did come of it. Due to the obsessive documentation contained in my 06-07 planner, it now functions as a journal. I keep it in a special black box along with every love letter/note that Brock has ever written me. Yes, my planner joins those ranks. Sad, but true. Nowadays, I refer to it quite frequently just for fun. I get some sort of twisted satisfaction from knowing that on the day Brock and I had our first kiss, I went to a physics lab.
I’m at the point where I feel like I’ve got my planner addiction under control. It always sits patiently in my backpack if I ever need it, but if for some inexplicable reason I leave it home, it’s not like I need to go pop a Xanax. Yet I am by no means fully recovered. About a month ago, I ran into a line of planners for women called “The Success Choice.” These planners have monthly values that you’re supposed to work on (dedication, integrity, charity, etc) along with checkboxes for everything imaginable. You name it. Monthly, weekly and daily cleaning tasks, your five daily fruits and veggies, eight glasses of water, exercise. Inspirational quotes line the margins! There are even pages for weekly and monthly self-evaluation!!!!!!!!!
I used this planner feverishly for about a month, but had to make myself stop. I went cold-turkey. I figured I was already enough of an anal, Type-A micromanaging psycho-organizer, so I followed Thoreau’s immortal advice (“Simplify, simplify, simplify…”) and did the unthinkable: I threw The Success Choice planner away. Well, actually, I recycled it (heaven forbid I go certifiably insane and throw a precious recyclable into a garbage can!!! bahahahaha!!!!).
I’m feeling much better now. Back to my old, trusty Gooseberry Patch. I’m getting a little antsy because the year is slowly coming to a close and that will mean choosing a new planner. The Success Choice lurks in the dark recesses of my mind. Ordering it would be quick and painless: 30 seconds and a few mouse clicks.
Resistance is difficult, but I have faith in myself. Who knows though? I may be calling you for moral support on December 31st, so do me a favor and keep your cell phone charged.
I know these feelings are unhealthy, and I know I need help. How it came to this, I don’t know. It was a gradual process, I suppose…
My senior year of high school is when I first remember using a planner hard core. I wrote in it with different colored pens for different classes and drew cute doodle and illustrations. Precious. However, I was still a mild user at this time. There would be weeks where my planner was a nuclear warzone of pen, checkboxes and highlighting, and other weeks where it resembled a peaceful forest clearing. I guess you could say me and my planner had an on-again, off-again relationship. Think Kid Rock and Pam Anderson.
During my freshman year of college, things escalated. My planner became my everything. Every single little iota of information regarding my life was recorded. At times, I literally wrote down my daily schedule hour-by-hour. Pathetic, I know. Hundreds of X’d-off boxes dotted the pages. You know you have a serious problem when you create boxes for things you’ve already done just so you can get the high off of X-ing them off. Brush teeth? X. Make bed? X. Q-tip my ears? X. Obviously, this relationship had become an unhealthy one. Think Charlie Sheen and Denise Richards. Well, actually, think Charlie Sheen and anybody.
However, good did come of it. Due to the obsessive documentation contained in my 06-07 planner, it now functions as a journal. I keep it in a special black box along with every love letter/note that Brock has ever written me. Yes, my planner joins those ranks. Sad, but true. Nowadays, I refer to it quite frequently just for fun. I get some sort of twisted satisfaction from knowing that on the day Brock and I had our first kiss, I went to a physics lab.
I’m at the point where I feel like I’ve got my planner addiction under control. It always sits patiently in my backpack if I ever need it, but if for some inexplicable reason I leave it home, it’s not like I need to go pop a Xanax. Yet I am by no means fully recovered. About a month ago, I ran into a line of planners for women called “The Success Choice.” These planners have monthly values that you’re supposed to work on (dedication, integrity, charity, etc) along with checkboxes for everything imaginable. You name it. Monthly, weekly and daily cleaning tasks, your five daily fruits and veggies, eight glasses of water, exercise. Inspirational quotes line the margins! There are even pages for weekly and monthly self-evaluation!!!!!!!!!
I used this planner feverishly for about a month, but had to make myself stop. I went cold-turkey. I figured I was already enough of an anal, Type-A micromanaging psycho-organizer, so I followed Thoreau’s immortal advice (“Simplify, simplify, simplify…”) and did the unthinkable: I threw The Success Choice planner away. Well, actually, I recycled it (heaven forbid I go certifiably insane and throw a precious recyclable into a garbage can!!! bahahahaha!!!!).
I’m feeling much better now. Back to my old, trusty Gooseberry Patch. I’m getting a little antsy because the year is slowly coming to a close and that will mean choosing a new planner. The Success Choice lurks in the dark recesses of my mind. Ordering it would be quick and painless: 30 seconds and a few mouse clicks.
Resistance is difficult, but I have faith in myself. Who knows though? I may be calling you for moral support on December 31st, so do me a favor and keep your cell phone charged.
Curse you.
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