Seventy two hours into the New Year and I am barely hanging on by fingernails.
Forget the fiscal cliff; I’m walking the edge of Resolution Canyon and I’m starting to get a mite dizzy.
It’s not like we all haven’t been there, you know, “This year for sure,” and “I swear to God I’m going to … ” What’s the old adage, “The best laid plans?”
Perhaps we’re all setting our goals too high. Perhaps, we’re really setting ourselves up for failure. Let’s start with the dieting resolution. Dumb idea.
January is football playoff time. Not to eat chips would be un-American. Plus, you’ve got your holiday movies that you’re finally getting around to seeing. And that means popcorn. “Just fill it up half way please.” “Is this all the butter you have?” Not to mention it’s too cold not to curl with a good book and a Cadbury bar and wait for spring. Which brings us to exercise? Oh yeah, that’s gonna happen.
I’m pretty sure that my dog ate my Nike’s, or I may have fed them to him. And I think I pulled a muscle typing this … ouch. Okay, I’m back. The point is, quit asking too much of yourself.
Rather than losing weight and getting cut, I have resolved NOT to fly first class to Paris or invest in a race horse … so far so good.
You might consider not learning a new language, or not buying the new Justin Beiber CD. Or maybe, just maybe we could all resolve to be a little kinder to our fellow man … and to donate to Jazz on the Plazz.
Happy New Year.