quiet resolution

They’re funny things, these little declarations we all make with each and every new calendar. Not funny ha ha, like Seinfeld should have been, but interesting and odd, like women who choose to wear their hair with skunk streaks. They’re almost exercises in frustration. A way to set yourself up to fail. A jaded perspective, I’m aware, but one well earned after committing to lose 10 pounds since well before the Spanish-American War.

I’ve taken enough Covey classes to know that goals should be specific and attainable. Achievable in real time, lest you abandon more lofty pursuits in favor of eating your weight in Skinny Cows while drunk texting your ex. But in all honesty, the details just aren’t there for me this year. My life seems to exist in generalities right now, the “world peace” response of pageant contestants that disappointingly doesn’t get down to the nitty gritty. I noticed it first when asked for my Christmas list. Kitchen things would be nice. New clothes and products and . . . stuff. Needs and wants fall into umbrella categories, which will irritate the Hades out of the left brains who are reading, something I’ll giggle at for this year and resolve to do less of in 2009. Maybe.

I know without a doubt that I want to be better to my friends and family. I’m hoping this will take the form of less fear of the cell phone, less reliance on the Interwebs for communication. I’ve spent a good bit of time lately around those of you more skilled at nuturing those for whom you care, and I’m left in awe of your abilities, and admittedly feeling somewhat inadequate, just as I was during every school gym class flexed armed hang. I want to be you, to return calls and emails with ease and minimal amounts of stress. To send cards by way of old school mail to commemorate each birthday, a 20th wedding anniversary, a successful job interview. To call, even for 30 seconds, to say congratulations on bringing your new breasts home and I hope they grow to be all you want them to be. But I have to work at that. Not an ounce of any of this comes naturally to me.

Be better to myself. Ideally, I’d shed a pound for every year I’ve been on the planet, become a Truth spokeswoman, and replace my wines with mango and kelp juice. It isn’t going to happen. Being better to myself has to take both little and larger forms this year, some blogworthy and some celebrated by an impromptu dance in the shower. Choosing to pay off the card rather than adding more to its balance. Going to sleep before 10 on a Friday night without worry about what the rest of the world is doing and ultimately choosing my bed over the couch. It's a fridge with more than fake butter and expired yogurt. Traveling even if only for the weekend. It's high tea with my mother and bite-sized cheesecake and coffee with real cream. Walking with the sun on my face. Live college football. Making the doctor's appointment before the reminder card comes. And doing as much as I can to be present in a body that’s constantly tugging me toward the future. It's going to be delicious, indulgent fun. Yum.

Spend less of my time in worry mode. I exhausted the first 20 minutes of my evening searching for lost prescriptions, two pieces of flimsy white paper each no larger than a hand. Given the whirl that ensued, one would have thought I’d misplaced the Declaration of Independence, or God forbid those Taco Bell coupons I’m hoping are just out of sight under my car seat. I searched through four handbags, the kitchen drawers, the countertops, the nightstand, and every crevice of the bathroom before I abandoned the effort. Around minute 15 it occurred to me that no defibrillator would be needed and that these were replaceable objects, just a phone call to the doc away, but persistent and dumb as rocks to a fault, I kept at it. Frenzied failure. Waste. Trite as it is, I won’t get those 20 minutes back, ones I could have used to enjoy watching Cricket make mince meat of yet another shiny Christmas decoration. At least I could have unpacked that suitcase from BlogHer.