As many know, I normally make no New Year’s resolution. Over the years, I learned that resolutions are ineffective and often go unbroken. Most resolutions never get past a week. One year I vowed to lose weight. “Don’t eat the ice cream,” my coworker pontificated at a meeting. “Where is it?” I countered. And there you go. Vowed to reduce pizza? Ate it. Declaring an abstinence from coffee found me four hours later laid out on the break room floor wheezing out between gasps to anyone listening that I couldn’t make it unless I received a caffeine fix. This year, I will try for a bolder resolution: walk like James.
To properly understand, you’ll require some context. When I started my current position, the job required a national security clearance. Over the course of several weeks, I carefully completed an SF-86, a one-hundred plus page Questionnaire for National Security Positions that details all previous employment, travel, criminal, financial, martial, personal background, all the times I used a restroom on foreign soil, and any other tales of woe I would to voluntarily disclose before government agents ask, “Hey dumbs**t. What about this incident in 40 years ago in a bookstore in Frog Jump, Tennessee?”
“God,” I sighed. “The office doesn’t return from remote work until April 2021 (if we’re lucky). Why drop off dry cleaning?” I muttered as I pounded the steering wheel. I remind myself of where I am on the road to eternity, especially when my heart gives small instantaneous pains. In seconds, they come and go. Each trigger (event) reminds me there is no end. There is no respite. And that’s the crux; five years post-osteoarthritis diagnosis, nearly two years into a tumor diagnosis, almost a year into Parkinson’s, and barely a couple of weeks into heart disease, I remain cloudy upon what precisely ‘new year’ means.
Greetings one and all. Guess what? It’s ‘that’ time of year again: A New Year. A new decade. As 2020 approaches, it’s time to reflect upon resolutions, new and old.
Many publications detail splendorous lists of resolutions. Waiting for a doctor’s appointment yesterday, Good Housekeeping Magazine editors listed the ‘traditional.’ Create a budget, cook one new thing each week, read more books, join a club, drink less alcohol (seriously?), take the stairs (huh?), become a plant owner, and so on. In all, Good Housekeeping editors ripped off a list of 45.
I’ll admit, I did create a budget. My employer loved it. Does it count? I did eat one new thing each week. They were all cooked, but every dish came from the employee cafeteria. I read more books. The books were from distinguished authors supervisors claim we must ‘channel.’ Works included “Turn the Ship Around,” “Management for Dummies” and other thought engaging topics. I did join a club, it’s ‘the club’ management ‘highly recommends’ every employee join. All of us inferred that if we didn’t, we’d die. I also acquired a plant. It’s fake, and is fairly low maintenance. However, I’m considering parting with it because it interferes with reading.
Since I’ve been sick, many suggested I adopt a healthier lifestyle. “Find some inspiration,” some professed. Looking back no farther than this decade, I researched about adopting a lifestyle of the rich and famous. Gwyneth Paltrow offered America vagina steam and jade vagina eggs. Kim Kardashian offered viewers vampire facials. David and Victoria Beckham proposed bird poop facials, while Sandra Bullock recommended facials constituted from foreskin stem cells. Instead of alcohol, Madonna suggests I drink urine, preferably mine. And last, but not least, the Kardashians suggest one participate in placenta smoothies.
If you put me on the spot, here’s how I’d summarize my New Year resolutions, by decade.
1970: Become a famous military spy. Save the world.
1980: Become a brilliant writer. Inspire the world.
1990: Become a renowned rescue man. Save a kitten.
2000: Wake up and claim I did something. Anything.
2010: Kiss Ass. Keep the job.
2020: Embrace My Inner Neanderthal: Grunt. Pay rent. Forage for food.
At this point in my life, I wonder if ‘resolutions’ and ‘bucket lists’ should merge? Call it the “Covey Thing:” You remember, First Things First mantra and Seven Habits of Highly Effective Whatever guru who propels one to carry a planner forever, identify quadrants, and shift paradigms. Personally, for a person with a neck tumor and being prodded for colon cancer, the only paradigm I wish to experience is a pain-free dump. I liken Covey’s approach to the mental equivalent of ‘killing two birds with one stone’ theory.
By merging ‘resolutions’ and ‘bucket lists,’ maybe there’s both liberation and empowerment. I recently watched an Indian film, 3 Idiots. I believe this movie has usable ‘resolutions’ for everyone. It’s humorous, heart-warming, and sometimes shouts the value of life to the world. Thus, my 2020 list of resolutions is inspired, in part, by the film.
Tell someone I love them.
Make love in an early morning rain.
Use time wisely.
Create a sense of hope for those I leave behind.
Tell myself that “all is well.”
Pursue excellence, and success will follow.
Pray to God that I will receive the wisdom to understand all His lessons, even in death.
As many know, I normally make no New Year’s resolution. Over the years, I learned that resolutions are ineffective and often go unbroken. Most resolutions never get past a week. One year I vowed to lose weight. “Don’t eat the ice cream,” my coworker pontificated at a meeting. “Where is it?” I countered. And there you go. Vowed to reduce pizza? Ate it. Declaring an abstinence from coffee found me four hours later laid out on the break room floor wheezing out between gasps to anyone listening that I couldn’t make it unless I received a caffeine fix. This year, I will try for a bolder resolution: walk like James.
