I admit it. I like the idea of new year’s resolutions. They appeal to my linear, think only inside the box brain. The simplicity and elegance of the activity is perfect in theory: make a list of various things you want to improve in yourself on January 1rst. Accomplish them by December 31rst. Et voila! A new and better you!
But alas, if only the execution were as simple as the intention (no, I refuse to bring up the road to hell. Don’t think of a pink elephant.)
Because so far, I have failed at all my resolutions and it is only January 7th. However, as my catholic roots and my love for Dostoyevsky novels have ingrained in me a deep belief in redemption, (repent sinners!) I am not giving up on myself. Because, as I tell my children while they stare blankly at me, if these shenanigans we call living do not amount to a certain self- amelioration, then where’s the meaning?
I won’t go into any details, as they are boring and kind of embarrassing (yes, one involves the slow disappearance of an unsightly paunch) but suffice it to say that my resolutions cover each of the big categories- health and fitness, career, citizenship (no, I will not be running for mayor).
So, in this first post of the year, here’s to hoping that I don’t disappoint myself. Because, really, who else cares if I slip up and buy some unorganic, unfairly traded chocolate? Well, besides the child slave labourers in Cote d’Ivoire that is…