I'm not big on resolutions. I get discouraged and usually quit when I inevitably break them, but I do like to have goals. Goals feel more attainable to me -- like I can mess up, get up, try again, and still be in pursuit of my goal.

I've been thinking a lot lately about who or what I want to become more like, especially as I get older. These are not the goals I had at 21 (fitting into leather pants a size too small no longer make the cut), but they are ones I hope to hone, however imperfectly, this year.

About to drive to pick up my sister and head to the airport and our final destination, a beloved blogging and writing conference called Allume, I have everything planned.

Getting up early, I plan to sneak quietly out of my house, so as not to wake anyone else up. Putting my bathroom supplies in my suitcase and scanning my lists one more time, I feel comfortable that nothing has been missed.

I pull out on the open road, seeing very little traffic at 5 a.m., and tamp down my excitement for what the weekend may hold.

As I near my sister's house, located half an hour away from my own, I suddenly realize that I've forgotten something. Despite my lists, I've left behind my pants. All of them. I picture them in my mind, lying on the chair in my bedroom where I’d placed them the night before to finish drying. Still there.

Crap, I think.