It's that time of year, again. Staring down the barrel of 2009, I walked through the bookstore the other day and spotted a few calendars that looked interesting.
The obligatory Paris landmarks. A few beachy ones. A snarky Ann Taintor. And miles and miles of animal calendars. (Why?)
But I'm jazzed about finding one I like. I get the same textural "ooh!" opening up a fresh calendar as I do cracking open a new notebook and taking a pen to page.
Clean slates, and all that. And print on paper.
(Basically, I've had an attachment to office supplies of all kinds for my whole life, so there's some deep-seated psychological thing going on here, I'm sure.)
Partway through this year, I started a new job. At the time, I didn't have a spare calendar to stick in my cube and it was so late in the year, none could be found.
As a result, my decor is extremely minimal; I moved in amidst the accoutrements left behind by my predecessor and have slowly been ditching the things that aren't helpful.
Things have been so busy, that taking the time to fully move in has taken lower and lower priority.
So the calendar will be the linchpin; when I find one of those 16-month versions, I'll tack it up and really feel like I've moved in and taken root.