My waistline is more a suggestion now, instead of a well-defined feature of my anatomy. Because the pecan
Pie I made for Christmas dinner and the baklava my daughter sent packed in a box of gifts,
Were deemed too tasty to ignore in spite of the calories they boast in abundance. Do I feel a New Year’s
Resolution in the making? Elastic waist pants in my future? A regimen of calisthenics in development?
Ask me in a week or so. There are still gourmet marshmallows wrapped in pretty paper on my kitchen counter.
Calories be damned.
I resolve, she said, to abstain from running naked down the boulevard.
That’s no decent resolution, said he, since not doing that won’t be too hard.
Ha! she said, You’ve no idea of the urge I have to disrobe every night,
And jog joyfully down Monroe street clothed in nothing but moonlight.
In that case, he smiled sincerely, I hope this resolution breaks,
And I’ll wait for you on the capitol steps no matter how long it takes.
ring in a new year
fresh with possibilities
beautiful and bright
lips meet discreetly
promises sealed at midnight
as chimes mark the hour
a sip of champagne
bubbly, bright, hedonistic
I’m working on my resolutions. So far, I’ve written
1) Invent an affordable flying car
2) Take flying car for a spin
That’s about it. Go big or go home, right?
Don’t give me excuses
For losing resolutions
Promises to self.
Instead, hold my fingers
To the flame
Keep me accountable
Steady, steady girl
You can do this
Take one last long
Look at yesterday.
Gone like every other
Past minute, past hour
Filled with chances
Some gained, some lost.
What now? Only some
Promises are worthy
Of keeping for
Any length of time:
Love more, worry less
Care for everyone.
Nothing else even matters.
At my chiropractor’s office this morning the young assistant excitedly asked, “So what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”
“Oh nothing,” I said. “My husband and I will probably stay in, watch a movie, maybe drink a toast at midnight, if we even make it up that long.”
“How awful!” she said. “That sounds so sad.”
“Actually,” I told her, “A quiet evening sounds like tons of fun to me.”
She gave me a pat on my hand as if to say, “you poor old lady.”
Not too many years ago I’d have had the same reaction. After all, isn’t New Year’s Eve tailor-made for partying? When did that change?
Was it during the years when our children were young and we knew that the sleep we missed on New Year’s Eve would not easily be recouped?
Did it change those years when Studly was working shift work, and we spent the big night in separate locations?
Or did it happen when we realized how bad we felt after a big night of partying, and how long that feeling lingered?
Chances are it was an accumulation of causes. At any rate, one would have to drag me out of my home screaming and kicking on New Year’s Eve.
Unless there’s dancing. I’m always up for dancing!