I think I bought the wrong calendar. I mean, it's 2010, so it'll work, but I put it up on the wall before going to bed last night, and this morning, walking into the kitchen and glancing over, it just didn't feel right.
The calendar purchase is a serious matter. We're talking about a $10 investment that you hang on your wall in a high-traffic area and you have to live with it, for a whole year.
(Yes, it has to be in the high-traffic area. The designated calendar spot, across from the kitchen. So I know what day it is. Really.)
I usually wait until the year has actually started (1995 was a notable exception), not only because calendars are by this time generally greatly reduced in price, but to give the year a few days, to get a feel for it, for its potential, for how it all might pan out.
(For a few years, my father-in-law bought us all calendars at Christmas. Even while I think the calendar choice is an intensely personal one, I didn't mind too much, I guess because I always really needed one. But I did think it was a bit weird, particularly once we were a family of three. How many calendars does a family need? Hang them in the bathroom? There's always the office, but that's a space whose calendar must meet stringent requirements.)
So yesterday at lunch I went on a calendar hunt. I seriously considered one, but discarded it — it would've put too much pressure on the year, bathing it in a flavour that rightfully belonged only to January. And I bought something else. The pictures are nice enough, suitable to the space, and all the days are there, but I don't think I connect with it. And now I have to live with it for a whole year.
Maybe that's alright. Maybe it'll keep me on my toes. Maybe it's the poke in the eye I need to remind me to look at things fresh. To remind me what day it really is.