When I think about all the things that 2014 can hold, I want to throw up.

It’s like the potential is quivering in my stomach, threatening the explode out of my throat and all over the carpet. So much lies ahead of me, so many opportunities, so many chances, so many doors.

There’s something big coming. Something that has the potential to change my whole life.

This isn’t just some little gleam in my eye, something I came up with when drunk because I’m bored with my life. This is no, “Hey, I want to dye my hair crazy-ass colors!” or “I’m going to run a half marathon!” This is something that I want so badly that it makes my chest hurt to think about it. It’s all I’ve been able to think about for the better part of a year, my obsession. (Let’s face facts, it’s entirely responsible for my abandonment of this sacred space.) Sometimes it seems too much, too huge, too impossible; I may or may not have cried more than once during this journey. But the desire has permeated my being so thoroughly that there seems to other option but to achieve this goal, so I slog on.  This isn’t something that I would like, that I would dig, that would be neat; this is something that I must do. I imagine over and over how good it will feel when it’s over, the ecstasy of finally achieving my dream; I haven’t bothered to imagine what will happen if I can’t do it, because that’s not something that I can emotionally handle right now. It won’t be easy, but it’s something I will do.

It’s also something that I’m too afraid to tell you about.

I’m afraid that if I shout it from the rooftops, that if I sing the glories of my epic journey, and then it doesn’t happen…well, just the fact that my dream died will be devastating enough without having to admit to the world that I failed. Not that I think that it’s going to happen. I’m going to achieve this dream. (I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.) But this is too sacred, too important, too deep in my heart for me to play with.

But I promise, as soon as this goal is mine, I will share every moment, as well as the changes that will inevitably result from it. Trust me, I’ll be so fucking ecstatic that they’ll be hearing about it in space.

Until then, here’s to the new year. Let’s grab 2014 together and shake it by the balls.

(And no, I’m not fucking pregnant.)

I’m sitting on Kyle’s parents’ porch by the lake. It’s incredibly peaceful, and very, very still.

Off in the very far distance there’s the rushing of cars, the rumble of a lawn mower, but it’s practically white noise, and easy to tun out. Right here, in this little world I’m sitting in, there’s bird calls chasing each other through the octaves, and the continuous electric hum of the cicadas. The lake is almost perfectly still, only a slight ruffle in some places, while in others its smooth surface offers a wobbly picture of what’s on the other side. It’s as if I and the world hold our breath for fear that a whisper will destroy this crystalline moment of peacefulness.

Last week the world did not hold its breath with me.

Last week the world thundered and roared around me, while I tried desperately to catch my breath. Worry howled in my ear, while anxiety held me with its merciless grip and shook me. Wave after wave of exhaustion washed over me, fought back only momentarily by snatches of sleep and as much caffeine as I could empty into my body. Wailing behind it all was the regret over all the ways that I could have, should have, wished that I were spending my time, always moaning in my ear.

There was also stillness. Oh, yes, there was. In the moments when I tried to escape the crashing and shrieking and find a place of quiet and stillness inside of myself. But there were no darting hummingbirds there, no fluttering water, no quiet breeze dancing effortlessly with the trees. There was only blackness and hopelessness that pressed in on my chest until I couldn’t breath. A single tear that fell on paper and blurred the frantically scribbled fragments of worry. Even there in the blackness, the muffled howl of my worry and anxiety harmonized with the hopelessness below, until I had to escape to the crash and fury above.

But not today.

Today there is no rush, there is no anxiety, there is no angst. The only worry belongs to the cat, who is stalking a squirrel. There is only easy, lovely stillness that settles over me like a cool sheet on a hot summer night. I want to capture this moment before I breath out, to etch every detail of this perfect quiet on the walls of my mind. So that maybe next time the storm comes I’ll have a place where I can go.

A place where I can close my eyes, hold my breath, and just be still.

Pinterest. The land of shiny things. The black hole of time, hours passed wistfully soaking up all the pretty. The place where clothes are always fabulous, bodies are always slammin’, and your baking projects always turn out perfectly.

Wanna hear a secret?

Sometimes I hate Pinterest.

Everything is so fucking perfect on Pinterest. Too perfect for a girl like me. I look at all the pretty pictures of toned bodies and flawless makeup and color-coordinated rooms and Marchesa gowns and think, “Well, that’ll never happen,” as I pick the wedgie from my flannel pants and take another slug of my beer. Sometimes I feel like Pinterest is nothing more than a record of all the ways that I fall short as a woman and a person. The clothes I should own. The beauty regiments I should follow. The house I should decorate. The tattoo I should get. The food I should cook. The things I should find funny. The healthy habits I should adapt. Scrolling through Pinterest, looking at all the suggestions for the person I’m supposed to be, I don’t know a person on this earth who could not feel like they come up short in at least one aspect of their life. I certainly can’t. Looking at all my boards, all the pictures of things that I should acquire or steps I should follow or ideas I should act upon…it’s an overwhelming mausoleum of all the things about me that  I perceive as not right that I wish I could fix.

In a way, it’s fucking depressing.

And there’s a danger in Pinterest, a deceptive safety that lies nowhere else. As a female in the 18-35 year old demographic, I’m used to being inundated with advertisements attempting to get me to change my behavior in some manner, whether it’s by using their product over another or by joining their weight-loss plan over another. I can see an ad for Chanel in a women’s magazine or a commercial for Victoria’s Secret on tv and not be bothered by their perfection because I’m aware that the bitch had a team a dozen deep in charge of making her look perfect, not to mention the many artists armed with Photoshop and whatever the hell else editing is used to erase even the tiniest speck of imperfection on her body. That shit ain’t real. But there’s a disconnect on Pinterest that doesn’t exist with other media. I think it’s because so many of the pictures appear to be of or submitted by “real” women, there’s a sense of authenticity that doesn’t exist in advertising. If that girl taking the selfie in her bathroom could lose 20 pounds in 2 weeks or dye her hair that perfect shade of cherry-coke red or fashion herself a fabulous dress out of empty bread bags and twist ties then shouldn’t I be able to as well? And there’s also a feeling that because these products and procedures and suggestions are submitted by real women instead of an advertisement, then they must be true and real and right. I can trust them, because a real woman wouldn’t steer me wrong, right? When the reality is that when you have a pool of millions of users, the odds that at least a few of them will submit to advertising, persuasion, and false information are pretty fucking good. And besides, the products being suggested on Pinterest? Are still an advertisement. They’re just an advertisement that the company gets for free from well-meaning woman.

And yet, I keep going back. Everyday I spend a few minutes (sometimes more than a few) in the sadomasochist ritual of pursuing the shiny things, looking at the complex braids that I could wear if I only had waist-length hair or the Finding Nemo-themed nails that I could paint if I only had the skills of a professional artist and no full-time job. It’s like I’m searching for that one magical pin that will turn me into those magical fae women with the glistening skin and the silky hair, if only I could find it. Kyle thinks that the attraction is that Pinterest is constantly changing, always something new, but I have my own theory. I think that in our heart of hearts we spend hours perusing Pinterest because it holds possibility. In its thousands of how-to’s and inspirations and seeming success stories holds the promise of all the answers. The steps to finally loosing the weight that’s stubbornly stuck around. The tips for how to rid yourself of that cellulite that you’re ashamed up. The secret to the perfect handmade craft that will make everyone jealous of your creativity and skills. The recipe that will finally have your family eating healthy instead of the mac and cheese your four year old has eaten every night for the past two months. It’s like we believe that if we sift through all the pins we’ll finally find the keys to unlocking the selves and the lives that we always wanted. The ones in the pictures.

Now, in all fairness, I can’t totally hate on Pinterest.  There is actually one way that Pinterest makes me feel really good about myself, an ego boost, if you will. It’s seeing all the pins of women with purple hair with captions like, “Love this, not sure if I have the balls to pull it off, though,” or “Purple hair! Wish I had a job that let me wear this!” Even just seeing all the pins of women with pink and purple hair compared to the distinct lack of women walking around the world with pink and purple hair makes me feel good. It makes me feel like I’m that woman that they all wish they could be, if only for the color of my hair.

Besides, I’ve actually gotten some really useful ideas and inspirations from Pinterest. Instructions for how to clean my makeup brushes. The inspiration behind my last haircut, which turned out to be the best haircut ever. A recipe for homemade Snickers bars so delicious that Kyle made me sign a legally-binding contract stating that if we ever divorce I still have to make him Snickers bars. (Okay, so that last bit is an exaggeration. But they are really fucking good.) So it’s not like I’ve gotten nothing from Pinterest. But I do feel like Pinterest needs to be handled with a large dose of context and a great deal of caution. Sometimes, when I’m staring hopelessly at the perfect ass that I’ll never have, I have to make myself close the window and walk away lest I lose myself in the perfection that I’ll never be. Because I may not be Pinterest perfect, but I’m pretty fucking awesome.

And I don’t want to lose that.