There is a big problem with making New Year’s resolutions in January. January is the most difficult month of all to make any changes whatsoever. In fact, January is the most difficult month to just manage all the status quo stuff. January is the month that I want to find a nice dark cave, make a bed out of dirt, sticks and the bones of small mammals, and sleep until I no longer have any fat or muscle mass to sustain me.
Get to the gym, you say?
Why don’t we make New Year’s resolutions in the spring? Spring, when the coats start to go back into the closets and the air starts to smell like thawing dirt and sex once more seems like a possibility? When the threat of bikini season looms on the not so distant horizon? Spring is when I can consider actively burning calories and eating naught but fruits and grains.
I did so well last week. I lit a small fire under my butt and I rode it through Sunday. Then yesterday I had pizza for lunch. And then again for dinner. And then I went to bed at nine. By which I mean eight thirty.
I do realize that “New Year” is the practical time for resolutions, and we probably need the poke in the ass to counter-weigh the effects of January. But dearlordalmighty, it just feels so mean to be set up to fail like this on an annual basis.
To illustrate the way that I feel, imagine that I am the dog in this photo and the kitten represents my hopes and dreams.
Only instead of a couch, I have the comfiest bed in the world. So comfy and so warm, I can crush a mountain of hope and resolve in its folds and just keep on snoring away.
But I’m not ready to be defeated… not quite yet.
Okay, inner cave dwelling bulldog. Time to suck it up and go have a healthy lunch. And then, after work, you are going to take the shrink wrap off of that Jillian Michael’s DVD that you bought with your amazon.com points and your quixotic enthusiasm last week and see if you can, as advertised, have “Killer Buns and Thighs.” And if you kill those buns before they kill you, you can go to bed. Even if it is only six thirty.