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On Goals and Failure and Shame
When failure is all but certain, does the act of setting goals even matter?
I really hate New Year’s. Or maybe that’s just the curmudgeon in me.
It seems like I’m surrounded by people who are all excited about making goals and plans for the new year. You can’t swing a kneazle on the internet during the season without hitting someone who has these magnificent life goals beautifully plotted out for the year. It’s mystifying.
But, not me. I don’t do goals.
On one hand, it’s purely a pragmatic thing: when you barely have the resources to make it from day to day, trying to plan for a month out — a year out — a decade out, becomes a joke. Between now and then, something will go wrong.
The best example of this? My old friend, the savings account.
I can’t tell you how many times I’ve tried to start a savings account over the years. I always go into it with the best of intentions. And I’ve tried doing it in different ways.
When I worked at Chrysalis, I asked them to withhold extra money for my taxes. First, that started out at $50 a paycheck. A good, solid amount. Paid twice a month, that adds up $1200 over the course of a year. A nice chunk of money that I can do something with.
