Revolting against the resolution
December 27, 2006
Why don’t we just name the week after Christmas “What I hate about myself” week.
With the holidays squarely behind us and weeks until those gargantuan credit card bills arrive, we fill the void with all the things that are going to be different this year.
“This year, I’m gonna stop smoking.”
“Going back on the yogurt, wheat germ and kangaroo sperm diet next week.”
“I better enjoy those twins now, because Jan. 1, no more flings.”
Then, about Jan. 23, the inevitable happens: Your boss yells at you, and you light up. You can’t stand the taste of kangaroo, and you wolf down a doughnut. That hot accountant winks at you and hello hidden camera.
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In case I’m being too subtle, I think New Year’s resolutions are stupid. Like “Hi, I’m from Arkansas” stupid.
Why do you need an arbitrary date to change your life? Especially if you are just doing it because it seems like a good time and aren’t really committed to it.
While most of my disdain comes from people arbitrarily choosing to change, a small yet potent portion is because of the asinine resolutions themselves.
My favorite is “I’m going to enjoy life more.” Seriously? How do you intend to haphazardly accomplish this?
Work less, smile more ” that isn’t going to help when you are broke and homeless.
Stop and smell the roses ” here’s a news flash, they smell like roses.
Turn over a new leaf ” it’s still the same leaf just a new side and occasionally when you turn the leaf over, you find the “spider of reality” and he’s pissed.
Here’s your Dr. Phil moment: Enjoying life more shouldn’t be a resolution. Set goals and make a change that alters your life, thereby allowing you to enjoy it.
Or, use 2007 to discover Paxil. That will make everyone else’s life better.
So needless to say, I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. I choose to enjoy my favorite holiday without the guilt of knowing substantial changes are just hours away.
However, when the calendar hit 2000, I started several traditions that despite my many address changes, I have managed to continue.
First, I do my own “person of the year” award. I pick one person in my life who has helped me the most or in some significant way made my life better. Then, in what has to be some of the sappiest moments ever, I thank them for doing it.
Like Time magazine’s selections, mine aren’t always who you’d expect. Some years it’s friends, sometimes girlfriends and even an ex-girlfriend. One year it was the inventor of the condom, and let me tell you how awkward that conversation became.
I look at it like this, for all the crap I give people and all the difficulty being friends with me creates, you deserve some recognition for putting up with me.
Second, I have a glass of my grandfather’s homemade wine. Two glasses a year, one on New Year’s and one on my birthday. He enjoyed making it and while I’m drinking it, I always seem to think about family.
Finally, I sit down, unhook my manhood, put it on a shelf and write a letter to myself. I write about my life, my stresses, my successes and my failures. Then I seal it and put it away until next year. It’s stupid, and every year I tell myself I already know what I wrote. But I always seem to have forgotten something.
This year I’ll be mentioning this column, my utter heartbreaking loneliness and my new super-high-end infrared night-vision goggles.
For uh, bird-stalking, I mean watching. Bird-watching. Oh look, a hot accountant in her native habitat.
Got a good resolution? Tell me about it