My kind of marathon

I think I might be in trouble.

I said I’d run a marathon this year and the prognosis is not good.  Already.  January 2, 2015 and I’m unsure of the outcome. 

No.  Actually I am sure.  I will not run a marathon this year.  Or next year.  Ever.  I will never run a marathon.

Whew.  That feels better.  Next December I’d like to look myself in the face and say something besides, “What the heck were you thinking with that ridiculous idea?!!”

Oh all right.  I didn’t even say I’d run a marathon.  That would have been stupid. 

I’m optimistic.  I’m game.  I am many things – including old with gravely knees.  And I am well aware that there’s no way I will run a marathon in this incarnation. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I can still do things.  For example, I might walk with a hurried expression.  Urgently.  Step aside!  I’m walkin’ here!

Maybe I’ll even lift my arms and do that exaggerated marching thing like a speed walking drum major.  Yeah.  That’s it.  I’ll cast dignity aside and churn my way through the New Year.

But, remember Ellen DeGeneres talking about her grandma beginning a new fitness regime at age 65?  “She started walking five miles a day.  Now she’s 72 and we don’t know where the hell she is!”

That could be me!  So, no long distance escapades on the horizon.

Unless of course we think in terms of the Twilight Zone.  I could run that marathon.  Thank you Hulu.  Season 1, Episode 1!  Here we go!

Oh yeah, I love this one!  “Where Is Everybody?”  Remember?  The guy who “finds himself in a town devoid of people and with no memory of who he is.”

It’s so creepy:  The diner with the jukebox playing.  Hot coffee on the stove and pies cooling on the counter, but no waitress.  No fry cook! 

A gas station without an attendant.  A mannequin in a delivery van.  A phone ringing but nobody on the line.

Even an empty police station with a lit cigarette burning in the ashtray.  At last, a clue.  Rod Serling has been here.

Curiously, none of these aberrations stop the man from talking right out loud.  He prattles on and on.  He just wants to know who he is and why he’s wearing that jumpsuit.    

This is awesome!  You can power through every episode in order, or you can pick and choose. 

Good.  I’m skipping the one with the misanthrope who buys a player piano that makes everyone tell the truth.  Spoiler alert:  They all hate him. 

And the one where Burgess Meredith is a bookworm and the sole survivor of a nuclear holocaust only to break his glasses and be unable to read.   Sorry!

I want to find the one where William Shatner sees a yeti dancing on the wing of an airplane at 20,000 feet.  Or the one where he and his new wife have car trouble in a small town and he starts to live by the fortunes dispensed from a one-cent slot machine. 

“Will we leave town soon?” asks our future Captain Kirk.  “Only time will tell!” replies the fiendish contraption!  Oh my god!

I love that goofy spiraling cone in the opening sequence.  And the blinking eye!  I love the funky sets and the cheesy technology – Season 1 Episode 3 has the protagonists preparing for a direct nuclear attack by telling them to take their radios with them to the center of the house. 

I love looking for that picture of the Scotty dog that hangs on the wall in multiple episodes.  They must have been working on the cheap!

Serling’s recurring themes – space travel, time travel, regret, annihilation and death.  Love turned upside down.  Purgatory.  Hell.  Rod had it going on!  Misguided notions of heaven and beauty.  Greed.  No wonder this show was so successful. 

Remember the one where Old Man Simpson turned down admission to heaven because St. Peter said his hound dog Rip couldn’t come in?  Makes an Okie appreciate the Pope!

I could go on indefinitely, which is good considering Season 1 has 36 episodes!  And five seasons altogether make a marathon!

I know!  I’ll find the one where Robert Redford plays Mr. Death!  I mean really – what a way to go.

Another Marlon Brando New Year

Let’s be real.  For once.  It’s OK.  Go ahead and let it out:  We’re not keeping our New Year’s resolutions, are we?

There now.  Doesn’t that feel better? 

Oh sure, we mean well.  We have every intention.  We do so want to improve.  But do we even remember what we resolved with such fervor on January 1, 2014?

No.  No we don’t.  Unless of course we are coming up on January 1, 2015, fixin’ to resolve it all over again.  With a straight face.  Like it never even happened.

But aw shucks, Miss Carolyn!  We was just funnin’!  Honest!  We was just kiddin’ anyway!  What’s all the fuss about?!

Year after year we flap our lips!  Expel hot air into an already warming global climate. 

When if we’d kept our own promises TO OURSELVES, we could’ve been better by now.  We could’ve had class.  We could’ve been somebody.  We could’ve been contenders!  Instead of a bunch of bums.  Which is what we are – let’s face it.

Last year right about this time we punched our one-way tickets to Palookaville. And this year, if we don’t make some changes, we’re climbing on board the express train!

The Wall Street Journal quantifies the phenomenon for us: 88% of New Year’s resolutions fail!  So who are we kidding anyway?  Really – Who?

As I see it, if we want to hold our heads up, we have two courses of action available:

Option one:  Follow the advice of Oliver Burkeman, also known as Mr. Grumpy Gills at The Guardian, who says – Abandon your resolutions now “rather than waiting a week or two for the moment when [they] will inevitably collapse in a quagmire of failed hopes, self-reproach and packets of Pringles.”

Geez!  That’s a little harsh!  All right, it’s true.  But harsh. 

Interestingly, his crabby cynicism has the opposite effect on me.  Rather than give up before I begin, his defeatism on my behalf makes me want to prove him wrong.  Just show him that I can keep my resolutions even though my track record mirrors that of Charlie Brown’s classic football kick. 

Maybe I am doomed to fail.  Maybe the Lucys of the world have conspired to pull that ball away from me; or maybe I’ve done it to myself.  But no matter how many times I land on my back screaming “Augh!” I want to get up and try again. 

Ever hopeful.  Ever optimistic.  All right – ever naive.

Senor Crabbiness explains: “The lure of making a ‘complete fresh start’ can be hard to resist… But in fact, aiming for across-the-board change – to get fitter, eat better, spend more time with the family and less time playing Angry Birds, all at the same time – is exactly the wrong way to change habits.”

He and the WSJ agree – we should respect the feebleness of our self-control.

The prefrontal cortex is responsible for willpower and it has lots of other things to worry about besides our half-hearted New Year's resolutions.

“Willpower is a depletable resource, which means investing energy in any one goal will leave less remaining energy for the others; so your resolutions end up fighting each other.”

Sabotaged by a weakened wherewithal!  That explains why I have no recollection of my earnestly enumerated good intentions.  They paired up and knocked each other out!

Far better, according to the Grinch, is to aim for one new habit every couple of months.  Maybe it could be worth a try – In January swear off the Law & Order marathons.  Then in March…I don’t know…dust?

Or, says he, you can manipulate your surroundings and totally eliminate the need to spend your precious reserves of willpower.  For example, it's much easier to watch less TV when you don't have one.  Right.  Like that’s going to happen! 

Make things automatic, he says, so you don’t have to strive constantly to be better.  It’s too hard on your pea brain!  But despite your handicap, you can automatically use your credit card less if you hide it in your sock drawer.  That’s exactly how I wound up with a surplus of sox!

This year, I think I’ll simplify.  Opt for Plan B:  Line up your excuses in advance.

I plan to blame my brain.

High-tech resolutions for the New Year

I resolve to be self-reliant enough to conjure my own resolutions. 

Yes, it’s come to this:  For those bereft of all sense of self, the terminally lame and commitment averse, we now have New Year’s Resolution generators.  

I hope you didn’t already know that.  

I only stumbled across this abomination myself in my research as I reflected on the status of my being, took note of possible areas of growth and assessed my own personal cosmos before setting a path toward universal oneness in the New Year.   

That’s right.  I take the resolution business seriously.  No casual promises.  If I say I’m going to do something, I’m going to take an earnest run at it.  Full tilt.  Head on.  Right up until the end at least.  That’s when the new “no helmet to helmet contact” rule kicks in.  Prevents self-improvement concussions.  Thank God.  

I figured these generators would be something like eHarmony.com.  You know, that really profound dating site that plumbs the depths of your soul and ferrets out the plums of your essence, helping you know your true self and find your yin if you’re a yang?  Yeah.  That one.  I could hardly wait to go through the process, answer the questions, cry at the revelations and resolve my guts out.  

But it wasn’t like that. 

Anticipating a high-tech tool that would take me to the next echelon of internal evolution, I inched toward the edge of my seat and clicked the link to find Monina Velarde’s 2013 New Year’s Resolution Generator.   

But to my dismay, Monina, clearly a shallow non-believer, delivers only pre-packaged resolutions in a most cavalier manner.  “In 2013 I resolve to make friends.”  “In 2013 I resolve to dress up.”  “In 2013 I resolve to watch an episode of Oprah.”   

What the what?  I could only imagine the poor mope who might subscribe to such goals.  Could it be Monina herself?  Is she an agoraphobic in sweatpants whose TiVo is so full of Real Housewives as to necessitate a promise to watch daytime TV?! 

After a faint attempt at cosmic consciousness, “I resolve to accept,” Monina lapsed into “In 2013 I resolve to get jiggy wit it.”  So 1998. 

Unwilling to be deterred in my quest I tried the Laughing Squid’s generator to find his solo offering, the fantastic – “I resolve to be a rock star.”  OK.  Following that, the Squid presented a link to Monina! 

People!  Where is the introspection?  The creative thinking?  Not to mention the self-respect. 

By the way, did you know the top reason people cite for failing to accomplish their resolutions is poor time management?  Interesting since improving time management is also among the top resolutions made. 

But making resolutions is a valuable use of one’s time, right? 

Therefore, with firm resolve (!)  I pressed on to The Network Geek who tendered a generator based on The Worst Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Holiday edition.  At least it’ll be pragmatic, I thought. 

Eager resolvers begin with a sentence starter and a blank to fill in from among choices either to start something or to give something up.  But the convoluted wording of the fillers came straight out of Trivial Pursuit.  You remember those stupid questions - Which of these 1970’s soap opera stalwarts did not begin his career as a shoeshine boy in Des Moines? 

To wit:  I resolve not to complain more each day.  I resolve to begin giving advice less often. 

Still, the Geek was at least interesting with:  “I resolve to take a risk each week.”  “I resolve to start day trading right now.”  (See previous resolution.)  “I resolve to start fasting every day.”  (But…Isn’t that foregone?)  And, “I resolve to give up wearing underwear every day.”  (A struggle so many face.) 

I liked best the choice to “speak with the dead less often,” though I could never give it up.  No one else really listens. 

Then, just as I was about to retreat into self-righteousness, there it was.  A real, good idea for a resolution that could improve me and make the world a better place.  From the Network Geek no less.  A computer generated-something to strive for: 

I resolve to pray every day. 

I’ve already started:  Thank you.

2012 Risk - Reward Analysis

Maybe you saw this one:  A botched marriage proposal on the jumbotron at a recent UCLA basketball game.  Cameras zoom in on a section of the seats.  A UCLA promotions person in a tight T-shirt with microphone in hand stands by, grinning.  An earnest young man produces a velvet-covered box with a diamond ring.  He mumbles something romantic.  He wobbles onto a knee, opening the box for his best girl. 

But, but…the expected outcome, the one we’ve seen played out so often that we’ve begun to relegate it to the corny and redundant, is upended:  Our surprised and overwhelmed intended bride-to-be hesitated, then stood, put her head down, and ran.  She left her (former) man to face the mortifying facts:  He put himself out there, laid himself bare, and lost, in public.  Now he endures hi-def humiliation not to mention the restocking fee at his jewelers.

Right after thinking how awful it must be for him, the next logical thought among the risk-averse is why’d he do that in the first place?
Why would he take that chance?

Maybe he’s among those unfortunate ones who never learned to read the signals, the word choice, body language, and eye contact of those they pursue.  His sweet but bumbling naïveté let him down.
 
Therefore he felt certain of the outcome.  It wasn’t risky in his mind, only showy.  “We’ll be on the jumbotron,” he thought with the purest of delusions.  “It will be our 15 seconds of fame.  I’ll be the envy of my friends!  It’ll be fun!” 

Or maybe he thought, no matter the outcome, it would be worth it.  I mean, you’ve gotta give it to the guy, right?  God love him for taking the risk.  What would the rest of us do without risk takers?  The world would be Twilight Zone bland if populated solely with thrill observers.

What would we do without Extreme Sports, or Dancing with the Stars?  We get our kicks gripping the arms of our recliners when the stunt pilot swoops toward the ground.  We admire those who actually take risks to get their kicks.  We’re dazzled when someone else skis down that slope or rides that bull.
  
A quick review of my life reveals some risk taking:  I was a high school principal, after all.  That’s pretty risky.  I left the relative safety of the classroom to face the daily prospect of rejection by hundreds of adolescents, not to mention their parents, and the teachers on staff.  My daily strolls around campus were made more or less secure based on any unpopular decision I might have rendered.

Of course, the payoffs were tremendous.  I knew that going in.  I’d already spent many years as a classroom teacher and counselor.  Few professions offer the guaranteed rewards of working with young people.  Just spending my time with them was so edifying as to offset any ugliness that might have come my way.  So maybe it wasn’t that much of a risk.  True risk taking requires danger of losing sufficient to counter the possibility of gain.

Maybe our aversion to loss keeps us on the straight and narrow.  That’s a good thing.  We don’t go around accepting bribes or practicing corrupt business for our own personal gain because of the risks.  We elect our representatives and hire bankers for that.  We sidestep illegal drug use and reckless sex because of the hazards they bring.  Lindsay Lohan and Charlie Sheen are our surrogates for that kind of risky business.  Better safe than pathetic.
 
Yet, there’s something vaguely dissatisfying about safety.  Constant circumspection becomes claustrophobic.  The mild and middle road lulls.  A tiny rogue chromosome wants to break free.  And 15 items in the 10-item line won’t suffice. 

This year, 2012, beckons us past the breakwater and onto the open sea.  Maybe just once, we’ll grab the mike at the karaoke bar and belt one out like Ethel Merman.  Spike our hair.  Buy a convertible or a Mini Cooper…or a convertible Mini Cooper. 

Maybe we’ll risk rejection:  Greet every person we pass in produce aisle!  Try to make every cashier smile.  Dance all by ourselves, barefoot, on the front lawn.  Climb into a raft and shoot the rapids.  Try what scares us.  That thing we’ve always wanted to do, but…

Maybe we’ll turn on the cameras.  Take the risk.  Get onto one knee.  Gamble on a happy outcome.  Double down.

Resolutions for the End of Days

Given the official countdown of the Mayan calendar to the End of Time, I’m thinking New Year’s Resolutions for 2012 rise to a level of urgency heretofore unseen.  We have fewer than 365 days now to make our resolutions and get ‘em done. 

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 8^th, 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 22^nd, 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!