It’s that special time of year again, when we delude ourselves into promises that have a shelf life of, at max, three months. Tis the season of The Resolution, in which this time, we vow, -the weight loss/self esteem/taking less shit from people/eating better- is gonna happen. THIS is the year! THIS time we mean it!
And we’re completely ridiculous to place any faith in ourselves.
Sure, sure, we all love stories of the triumph of the human spirit over adversity; for example, I get all weepy every time I watch “Miracle”, because
- I love hockey, especially old time hockey with Jason-style goalie masks and very few teeth.
- We beat the Soviets. This was, and is, HUGE to children of the 80’s. Our boys beat The Reds, we showed them commies that there were more superior aspects to capitalism than Journey songs and the Atari 2600. Plus, I’m pretty sure the Ruskies were all flown home and shot in the head as soon as they cleared customs. Poor bastards.
But I’m not on a hockey team representing my country, so there will be no resolutions involving the triumph of hockey over rogue Eastern European upstarts.
I need to drop weight, I could use a dose of some positive self-esteem, and my cholesterol seems to think I could stand to eat less bacon.
But vague and drunken promises on a night of debauchery rarely hold up in the court of conscience, right? I mean, this would explain the marriages that take place in Vegas and end within the span of hours, or the entire career Britney Spears, for that matter.
Maybe the answer lies in little promises, which, like little lies, are so much easier to execute. Little promises, like using my turn signal in a more timely fashion. Driving a little less angry. Maybe a little more liberal with the deodorant, a little more conservative with the labeling of my enemies as “dead to me”. Quit arguing with my cats so much. More focus on my goal to be a professional dissenter.
If the little promises don’t work as planned, I’d be well served to set some lofty ambitions as well. This might come in handy, should I get nailed by a bus and must plead my case before the Reaper; “look, oh Grim One, I’m on the verge of a real breakthrough in the field of “——” here, so how about letting this one slide?”
With that in mind, here are the false hopes I have for 2011:
- To grow a pair of clankers, get off the duff and make the leap from unpaid to paid writing.
- Mount an expedition and discover what my office looks like beneath the acre of chaos that peppers my existence.
- Continue to pass unfair judgment on people, as always, but don’t run my mouth about it quite so often.
- Take some martial arts lessons just so that I make that reference when I get into a tight spot.
- Change the strings on the guitar, buy the boys a drum kit and get ’em into some, any, sort of music lessons.
- Cure a major illness, preferably by accident.
- See if I can identify the work of Lucifer in the Harry Potter series. On a related note, attend a book burning of sorts.
- At some point this year, run a half marathon without flirting with death.
- Finally commit to that tattoo, but only something really, really classy, like a dolphin or a peace sign, or maybe a butterfly.
- Obtain some chickens, if for no other reason than the fact I am thoroughly entertained by chickens.
What are YOUR New Year’s Resolutions?