|
|
|
My New Year's Resolution: No New Year's Resolutions! For once, I'm resolving not to resolve. Perhaps it was the half-empty pint of "Chubby Hubby" in my hand that tipped me off. Maybe it was the astonishingly low number of classes I attended last semester, or maybe it was the rapidly expanding beer belly I have acquired in this, my last year at our favorite institution of higher learning. Whatever it was that clued me in, I have finally admitted to myself that my New Year's resolutions are worth no more than the hot air of breath on which they emerged. I think the first one I broke was prenatal: at the start of 1970 , I decided that I would be not only punctual, but down right early. Due to arrive mid-February, I made my grand entrance on Jan **th (exact date omitted J). I was born five weeks early to everyone's astonishment, and that was the last time I was early for anything. It's not that I haven't tried. I always endeavor to leave as far ahead of time as possible to ensure a timely and prompt arrival, but there always seems to be something waiting to trip me up. My parking karma craps out, someone has run into the median on the freeway and everyone else has to watch, all of a sudden the gas gremlins have sucked me dry again...it's always a good reason, and it's never my fault. Every year I've tried a new resolution, and New Year's hasn't always been the only excuse for new ones. Despite my persistent and pronounced gangliness, there were always the multiple "I'm fat" stages. These called for day-long "diets," interspersed with days when I could eat in my normal avian manner. It seemed like the diet days always fell on someone's birthday, and you certainly can't pass up cake at a birthday party. On the "diet days" when I was unable to find a special occasion, I simply forgot or overlooked the concept. The idea of dieting seemed glamorous at the time, but glamour was nothing compared to a chocolate cone. Glamour was not worth misery, my sweet tooth won out and another resolution went down the drain. Continuing down memory lane we stop at another, more turbulent time in my life: puberty. In retrospect, I really feel bad for my parents. Dealing with a temper like mine, fueled by large and inconsistent surges of all sorts of new hormones, could not have been pleasant. And yet they survived. On the morning of my 12th New Year, I resolved to not fight with the increasingly irritating mom/dad/furniture, etc. It seemed so simple: if I just didn't get angry and didn't start yelling, then the arguments would stop. But my feathers are far too easily ruffled, and no one was better at it than my brother. Scott knew, and still knows, exactly the right things to say to infuriate me, and no resolution I would ever make could keep me from defending my pride. And so I fought back. Pretty soon I began picking my own fights, and before long another year's worth of well intentioned resolutions vanished without a trace. Through the years it has always been the same. As a Bluebird I promised to always finish what I began, as a shoe addict I resolved to stop using my credit cards, and as a floundering academic I resolved to not read any books for pleasure if I wasn't caught up in my reading for school. But the assorted unfinished art projects in my kitchen, the soaring balances on my credit cards and the pile of unread books on my shelves prove that I am unable to live up to my own yearly expectations. A promise is a promise, unless it's to myself. My word is gold, but when lofty goals of self improvement turn to empty and forgotten promises, my change purse is left barren. When my word is given to myself, my ambition flails. So here we are, back in school. It's not even February, and as the pint of Ben and Jerry's dwindles, so do the echoes of my resolutions of '97 grow faint. This year, I'm going to be honest with myself and resolve never to make another resolution again. Maybe this is one I can keep. |
|
|
