Take kung fu, tai chi, or another martial art.
Go to ladies night at the comic book store.
Go to the last Thursday book group at Deep Vellum.
Join the feminism and social justice book club I was just invited to.
Hang out with friends on my own; doesn’t always have to be with Mike. Hopefully he’ll start going out with G more, so I don’t have to feel like I’m leaving him alone.
Invite M and Z over for a movie, or to dinner on the weekend.
Buy more plants—because we can’t live in San Francisco, but we can try to recreate the feeling at least a little.
Use the apartment’s gym, or the rec center if necessary—just to be around other people.
Read at Starbucks.
Maybe volunteer at the Richardson library.
Thrift store shopping, especially for furniture and art, especially after we move to the new place—also garage sales.
Clean out old things: purses, clothes I don’t wear, dishes we don’t use, random knickknacks. All the things that just become clutter. Reread Marie Kondo.
Limit anime nights with my brothers to once a week. We’ve been doing this for a couple years now and I really like it, but it had become the only thing we ever do, and something that got in the way of doing anything else. We’ve been on a break since my family is moving and they’ve been busy packing, and I’m realizing that it’s a huge breath of fresh air.
When we have a house . . . A garden with cucumbers, radishes, and tomatoes.
Take a Japanese class, and once I do, start going to the Japanese meetup again.
Watch more movies, not just television shows on Netflix. Maybe it’s silly but movies feel like an accomplishment, an intentional choice rather than just going on autopilot.
See if Glass Half Full could become our new Fillmore.
Go to H-Mart and Daiso, by myself if necessary, at least once every couple months.
See better movies. Look for international ones playing at the dollar theater.
Watch Ticketmaster, try to go to more shows.
Stop bringing home dozens of books from the library at the same time, stop doing reading challenges. Just read what I want to read—and read a lot less, as insane as that sounds to me. I don’t need to have five or six going at the same time, and I don’t need to read 200 books a year. It’s just getting ridiculous.
Try to remember how much I want to do these things, even when they inevitably get lost in the fog of depression. Think of them as crutches, ways to make life less miserable until a permanent (or at least official) solution is possible.