What I love most about making a resolution is that for a brief, shining moment in time I have it all figured out.
Of course, as the year plays itself out, I end up forgetting what I had my mind set on. The whole concept of annual “resolutioning” is an exercise in futility. I find it just another way to let myself down.
While I must have kept some resolutions without even realizing it, I have broken more than I feel comfortable admitting.
All right. So I resolve to hold up my end of some cosmic bargain. I will stick like Velcro to at least one resolution this year. Perhaps I could refrain from obsessing over a particular love affair that should have ended eight years ago. Maybe I could actually bring myself to stop smoking the “demon” weed. How about I return to that novel I have been writing and finish editing the damn thing already? What is a boy to do?
The trick is to come up with something so foolproof and easy that I stand a better chance at achieving it. Baby steps, baby, baby steps.
I should start off on something so ridiculously obtainable that it fills me with the confidence to try another more difficult task.
I need to drink more water. Thus, I resolve to drink at least eight glasses everyday. That seems easy enough.
Of course, knowing me, I’ll find some way to weasel out of it. I might give it a go for about two weeks and abandon the cause all together.
On the flipside, 2008 ought to be the year that I challenge myself. While I am quite proud of what I have accomplished so far, I can’t shake the feeling that I am living beneath my potential.
I indulge my vices far too much. While the thought of quitting tobacco and marijuana looks good on paper, I just don’t think I am in the headspace for such a commitment. Hell hath no fury like a 31-year-old man-child deprived of his carcinogens. Maybe next year.
I really ought to maintain a healthier lifestyle. By this, I refer mainly to my penchant for nibbly, salty snacks. Often I will forgo a well balanced meal for a plate full of marble cheese and Triscuits. I have been known to devour an entire block of cow by-product and a box of crackers with lightning speed.
I should read more. That once expansive vocabulary in my head is becoming thinner and thinner. A few more episodes of Dynasty and I may become a drooling idiot.
I am also a soda junkie. Nothing can coat that emptiness inside quite like the rush of carbonated candy water.
I went to a gym several months ago and never returned. I could go back, lay down a few hundred bucks and become the tight, well-groomed Adonis I sometimes fantasize about. However, I think… nay, I believe, I need to end the curious bout of sexual repression that gripped me a little while ago.
I love sex. It is truly the best thing about being alive. Everyone seems to be doing it except for me.
Not that I am at a loss for astonishing orgasms and fleshy pleasures. I’ll leave it to you to assume what I mean by that. However, I want to experience what all the hype and publicity is about. Maybe then I can stop talking (and writing) about it.
Come to think of it, I never really have had mind-blowing “exchanges” with anyone. While I am compelled to point a finger at a number of lacklustre lovers, I know I have to accept a good deal of the blame.
Why am I holding back? Why can’t I take that sex-hungry playboy residing inside my libido and introduce him to an unsuspecting public?
I am an attractive man. I have all those choice adjectives working for me: intelligent, good-looking, funny, a phenomenal kisser, darling little tush. This coming year is all about learning how to fully enjoy sex. Surely there is some lusty bloke out there with that magic touch. Let the Village beware.
All right. How about this one? I will stick to a resolution of not over-thinking every last agonizing detail about every last thing. Then and only then will I be able to relax in my own skin. Then, and only then, will I feel comfortable in it. May copious amount of coitus be the reward!