Lists I've Made

At 10 years old, all 69 pounds, 4-foot 10-inches of me, I decided to introduce myself to my new diary. I did it by making a list. I was roundly mocked by family for my daily list-making – of course I was going to brush my teeth, but there was something so very satisfying about being able to cross it out. Task done. We can move on now. I’m not sure why lists were so appealing. I just knew that eliminating these enumerated tasks felt like progress. Feel free to play the armchair analyst.

But I’ve been thinking about them lately. I revisited my first diary entry.

#14 – I eat a lot.

#24 – I can stand on my hands for 2 seconds.

#25 – I can stand on my head for 11 seconds.

#30 – My longest hair is 1 foot, 9 inches.

#33 – I am a good whistler.

#36 – I talk in my sleep.

#11 – My house has 61 pictures.

#26 – My feet are ticklish.

Later, after I read “The Diary of Anne Frank,” I named all my subsequent diaries – there was Alicia, Katerina, and Diana. But the lists persisted. “10 Strange Things My Cats Do.” It felt like early training for listicles, before they had a name. “Boys in my Class that are Worth Liking” (yes, it’s terrible…)

We also had a backyard fort and club, with a friend of mine, my brother, and two of my cousins. When I discovered how to use my parents’ IBM Selectric typewriter, things escalated. I drafted a list of environmental topics – 50 of them. Not content to play cops and robbers, I instead asked each member to select something to research and report back on, so we could direct our meager funds (lucky money found on the street) to a charity of that cause. Basically, I was insufferable. One of my cousins wrote me a hand-written letter resigning from the club, as she knew I probably wouldn’t have accepted an oral resignation without something to file.

As I got older, I gravitated towards multiple lists in the various areas of my life – work lists at the office, on the back of a recycled work paper, always by hand, so I could so very satisfyingly scratch off things. Personal lists for correspondence, bills, appointments, and so on. And then, the dreaded New Year’s Resolutions. I started out modestly enough, with a few things, but over my 20s, they morphed into something unattainable, aspirational and grandiose – I had qualitative and quantitative categories, and I saved them in a Word document, so I could go back and list the books I’d read, the business connections I’d made through coffees or meetings, the personal and work trips I’d taken. There were x number of states or countries visited, weekend camping trips, daily hikes crossed out of guidebooks, and so on.

I still have them. I’m struck at how hard I was on myself.

When I was in Asia in 1997, I realized that the Chinese government made 5-year plans, so I started doing that as well.

-Learn to ride a motorcycle.

-Learn Arabic or Russian.

-Target shooting.

I knew I could do it if I put my mind to it. But it was as if I my qualitative goal of “superhero” had morphed into something that wasn’t, essentially, me, that ten-year-old girl who would rather stand on her head and play piano and read books.

I still keep track of the books I read (by hand, in a notebook), and I’m down to making a weekly list (work, correspondence, recurring tasks) on a 3x5 notecard. I’m trying to wean myself, after a lifetime of abundance, to whittle it down to the essential. The people I care about, the things I want to devote my time towards – no longer for the sake of scratching something out, but because there was some inherent value there in the action or placement.

I do still feel better making a list – knowing that if a project seems unmanageable, I can break it into steps and tackle it – a run-down house, a creative project - but I also now realize its limitations.

I’ve realized that you don’t fall in love with someone because they check the boxes on a list, that almost all of the beautiful things in my life have mostly happened by accident. That it’s good to plan, but better to be flexible. And that much of the control we attempt to exert is an illusion.

But in case you want to know anything more about me,

#31 – I collect rocks, postcards, and coins.

#28 – My favorite color is orange.

#6 – I don’t have freckles.

#7 – I live in El Paso, Texas.