This is the year I’m breaking with tradition.
I know, I know, it’s a bold move, a brave step, and an irreversible proclamation to make so publicly.
Yet from the rooftops I will shout: “I am not going to break a single New Year’s resolution in the coming year!” I said it. I meant it.
I am going to keep every single resolution I make. Even the really hard ones made in the heat of a bacon-wrapped cheese puff moment.
I have a plan, see, and I think it’s practically foolproof. I’m only going to make resolutions that I know are within my reach.
So with this in mind, this is the year I’m not going to lose a single darned pound! Not one, mind you. It’s going to take a greater commitment to blowing off the gym than I currently manage, but I think if I make a schedule and skip it religiously, it should be do-able.
If I start early and eat regularly at establishments featuring drive-through windows and super sized meals, I think I’ll have a nice handle on love handles by Labor Day.
Debt-full. I firmly resolve that I am not going to get out from under my debts either.
Nope. With a obliging head start from what the folks at VISA are undoubtedly referring to as “Seabolt Christmas 2002” (while dancing in merriment atop their desks, drunk on office party cocktails bankrolled entirely by the interest charges of yours truly) I should be right on track to rack up more debt than ever before.
No small feat in a struggling economy with uncertain employment prospects, but I think we have it in us to really hit that all-time debt high. Why should Mike and I be the last Americans to hop on the “more is more” bandwagon?
Simply not. I further resolve that I will not simplify my life. In fact, I plan to take on more extracurricular activities, obligate myself to a few more stressful personal engagements, and stupidly commit to tasks such as making 37 bunny ears for the preschool despite my not having even an ounce of talent in this direction.
For added discord, I will wait until late in the evening the day before the craft is due to start the task.
A life without stress is a life not lived, I say.
I won’t be conquering my clutter either. In fact, in light of my continuing commitment to increasing debt, once the last bow has been heaved aside and the gift wrap has been wrestled into submission, it seems likely that I will have more clutter than ever.
I may install shelving so as to have greater potential for mass display of disarray.
With regard to the Bermuda-Triangle like depths of our closets, the current “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in place at our house serves us nicely and as long as we can still force the closet doors shut, I see no need for change.
A whole old me. Finally, I will not be enriching myself in any way. I will continue to read trashy novels, won’t learn a second language, will not cook healthier meals, nor will I be nicer to friends and family alike.
I’m still going to worry about every inane little thing, be moody and mean when it suits me, and swear at bad drivers (namely: anyone not me) under my breath.
Yet, with an eye on at least a modicum of tradition, I will make one selfless New Year’s resolution. I promise to be more forgiving of my spouse. Particularly when he reads this and, with a smirk, insists that these are clearly the same resolutions I made LAST year.
(Kymberly Foster Seabolt is earnestly practicing her resolutions already. She welcomes reader mail c/o P.O. Box 39, Salem, OH 44460 or e-mail email@example.com.)