We’ve had plenty of warnings and false starts. We’ve enjoyed reprieve after reprieve what with a new, New Year coming after every old New Year in which we promised but did not deliver. I confess, I’ve grown complacent. But no more. I really mean it this time.
Commitment-phobes, put your heads down. No teasing. Don’t string yourself along. Don’t say it unless you mean it. This year’s resolutions may be your last! You don’t want to wake up careening into deep space on a chunk of newly exploded earth singing, “Is that all there is?” now do you?
Case in point: This time last year I resolved to make a pie. More than that, I resolved to make a pie with flaky crust. Now I still have a few days to make good on my professed goal, but I find it sad to acknowledge in the last week of December that my convictions were so weak as to rate no effort. No attempt. No crust. No pie.
Which begs the question as to why I didn’t achieve my, er, fitness goal. I didn’t make or eat a single pie, and yet I remain hovering near the same pull of gravity as I was this time last year. What’s up with that?
OK, yes, I did enjoy assorted portions of pies over the months, but so few, so few! How could such a dearth of indulgence result in such a flop of resolution? Of course, I didn’t make a firm note of my actual radius and circumference in January of 2011, so who can say with certainty? Perhaps I have made progress and can’t take credit.
I hereby resolve to keep better records as I hurtle toward my demise in 2012.
And yes. Yes. I continue to resolve to improve my degree of fitness. (I do love the euphemism. And degrees of euphemisms.) I’m working with a trainer now and she concurs that I am totally buff under this protective layer of … Tempurpedic foam?
Therefore, I resolve to stick with my training in 2012 in hopes of seeing some sinew burst through when I clutch a flagpole in my frantic effort to stay on the planet a few moments longer as time runs out and the snooze alarm quits working.
But this last call for resolutions begs for something striking, something bold. No ordinary promise will be sufficient for taking into the ever after. We must do something BIG. Like mountain climbing. Or spelunking. Maybe speed dating! (I’ll have to check with my husband. Not sure he’ll buy into the end-of-the-world rationale on that last one.)
Maybe I’ll resolve to fly in a glider. It’s not the skydiving I’ve toyed with over the years, but I’d consider it a respectable step in that direction. I can probably talk my sister-in-law into going with me. We’ll plan it for mid-December, close to the end, so if it doesn’t go well, we won’t have lost too many of the end days.
And I’m going to have that Elvis party I’ve chattered idly about over the years. Count on it. I went on line today and found blue suede shoes, aviator sunglasses with sideburns attached, even gold-studded white jumpsuits complete with flared legs, stand-up collars and red scarves. That’s right. I’ll be Elvis, not Priscilla. Though there are some pretty cool Priscilla wigs online too.
Elvis’s birthday is January 8th, as I’m sure you know. I don’t think I can pull together a soirée befitting the occasion that fast. So my attitude is that we can celebrate the King’s birthday any time we want. Given that it might be the last birthday party on the planet serving peanut butter and bananas, I could schedule it for December 22nd, 2012, the actual last day, according to the Mayas.
My husband will also be Elvis. He’ll look good. I’m hoping for a houseful of Elvises, some Priscillas and Colonels…I’m getting a karaoke machine and singing the whole playlist. I already know the words.
Lawdy, Miss Clawdy! What a way to go!