I never thought of myself as especially superstitious, but I’m considering revising that view. Long and careful observation has worn down my denial and the self-critical eye that drives it. I’m ready to own my idiosyncratic thinking – maybe even start celebrating it.

One recent portent I received came unexpectedly this past Saturday. We had a get together at our house and when I was chatting with one of my nephews he let me know that he reads my tweets. What this portends, dear reader, is a serious re-thinking of my snarky persona and snarky behavior on Twitter. This message from the universe is one I have taken to heart. (So, all you Trump supporters out there, you can rest easier now, I suppose.)

Here’s another example: I’m very taken with the idea that you can start with a clean slate on January 1. Standing on the ground of a new beginning, I resolve, each year, to be healthier, more productive, more creative, and just generally better. Whether it’s 1966 or 2019, that’s pretty much what I do.

This year, I thought I might try starting a bullet journal. I’ve seen them from time to time and been intrigued, although the meticulous attention to detail is a tad off-putting. I love meticulous attention to detail for about 36 hours and 27 minutes — maybe a little longer if I’ve had some kind of a health scare.

Anyway, I checked out a few bullet journals on Amazon and, knowing my proclivities, decided that I shouldn’t invest too much money in this. After all, there was a very good chance that in a few hours I’d get distracted by Pilates or Peaky Blinders or, most likely, the Eagles’ march toward the Superbowl, and set the bullet journal aside.

So I ordered an inexpensive journal and it was slated to be delivered yesterday. I was psyched and couldn’t wait to plot out my first month. I’d decided to track only self-care and creative ideas and activities since I have an online to-do list that I use for everyday and work-related tasks. I was pretty sure that this was going to be the year I really got back on track with writing — hell, maybe even painting.

Right on schedule yesterday afternoon I got a message that the package had been delivered. So I came home from work, all set to get started. But sadly, there was no package to be found. I searched all over and questioned my housemates. (Too aggressively? Maybe, but they seem to be over it.) This morning I walked down the driveway to the mailbox to check again and, oh woe is me, there was still no package there.

If you detect some insincerity in my ‘woe is me’ you’re not off base. As soon as the delivery seemed off-track, I had this slow-growing thought. Maybe the screw-up was actually a sign. Maybe I should go back and order the journal that I was eyeing first. I’d demurred and ordered the cheap facsimile because, well, I know I’m pretty much of a slacker.

But maybe not this time! I mean now, with this clear portent, the universe is probably telling me something. So I’m thinking I should probably go ahead and order the one I was originally drawn to. And in a bright color, at that. I even asked Alexa and she agreed.

So now it’s done. Bullet journaling, here I come!