Ahhhh, a New Year, a new chance to start, stop or improve all manner of habits, regimens and attitudes. A time when the people of the world are aglow with hope, perseverance and resolve. Yes, resolve, as in resolutions. Unfortunately we tend to craft these lofty goals while under the influence of too much food, too many friends and in an atmosphere of intoxicated (both literally and figuratively) jubilation.
I’ve suspected for some time that the word celebration, must be loosely translated from some obscure Greco-Roman origins, defining a lampshade type headpiece worn to a Toga party. And that resolution surely stems from the Greek, resol, meaning, “We drank too much”, and ution, which is actually a highly intoxicating distilled Greek beverage.
But I digress…
I’m no different from anyone else and now that we are firmly into January 2003, I believe I have nailed down my resolutions for this new annum, one of which is to increase my vocabulary by learning and using new words, like annum. Did you know it pertains to “year”? I honestly think it sounds more like an ailment that would require a proctological visit, but hey, I didn’t write the dictionary. (Would not surprise me to find out that Mr. Webster suffered from chronic hemorrhoids though.)
Sorry, now, where was I? My resolutions. I have the usual, universal one about diet, exercise, health, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill. I will exercise daily, I will eat a balanced diet, I will take care of my body. I suppose that the exercise part will disrupt my husband’s life a bit. He will no longer be able to use the treadmill as an extension of his closet. I swear it looks more like a piece of grant funded new wave “art” than a mechanical device. The last time I dug the poor thing out, I counted ten dress shirts, nine pairs of pants, eight silk ties, seven empty soda cans, six pairs of skid marked underwear (his, not mine, thankyouverymuch), five TV Guides, four old issues of People magazine, three Sunday’s worth of yellowed newspapers, two French fries and a partridge in a pear tree. I’m not kidding. Our six year old had made it out of macaroni and glitter in art class.
So dig it out I will. As for the new dietary guidelines? I vow to exist on more than the discarded crusts I patiently remove from my daughters’ toast and sandwiches, lest they “gag and die”. My fruit intake will involve actual produce, not fruit flavored gummy bears. And McDonald’s french fries will no longer qualify as vegetables. I am seeking balance. An apple, a pear, even some honest to God cauliflower once in a while. And I plan on dragging my family (kicking and screaming, to be sure) into this new way of eating with me. As I anticipate much in the way of anger and resentment, I would ask that for the next few weeks of this process, you watch CNN on a regular basis for reports of my dismembered body being found floating in a sewer near my house, along with that cauliflower.
As for the overall “health” part of my resolution? I guess I am referring more tomental health than physical. I am determined to take time for myself each day, regardless of the demands the Three Stooges (my daughters) and their leader (my husband) happen to make. I will lock the door during my baths, I will pee by myself. I will even attempt to consume an entire mug of tea while it is hot, as opposed to re-nuking it fourteen times a day. I will breathe deep, I will begin each day with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart. I will find my inner “happy place” – no, I do not mean my “G” spot – and I will visit it daily.
Yes, I can hear all of you saying, “Dreamer. Get a grip.” Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I am dreaming. But dammit, what’s a person got if they don’t have a dream? I’ll tell you: A live studio audience while they relieve themselves and a cold cup of Lipton.
Happy Freaking New Year!