The other day, while gazing into my underwear drawer, it struck me that it’s New Year’s resolution time. Traditionally, I like to adopt the philosophy of my SoCal friend Helen. She’s given up making resolutions because she doesn’t want to disappoint herself. But this year, I’ve got a few attainable goals in mind.
I resolve to cull all of my elastically challenged old lady undies and relegate them to the dustbin. I suppose it’s also time to let go of my much-beloved 2007 Grover Heights Elementary School March-a-thon T-shirt. I’m still debating that one. I also plan to straighten and re-evaluate items in The Cave, i.e. the messy closet under my stairs. I thought perhaps it needed attention when my friend Louise made fun of me for having yellow crime tape stashed in there.
The tape was a relic of my husband, Mick’s, days in construction, circa 1989. I recently used it to wrap a power tool for our oldest son’s birthday. I thought the fact that it had “CAUTION!“ repeated every 6 inches was appropriate because of the nature of the gift. However, her rude comment did get me to thinking that perhaps I ought to see what else is squirreled away. I don’t like to think of myself as a hoarder, but I suppose that’s open to interpretation.
I once helped with the estate sale of a deceased elderly friend, and she had her things neatly organized into boxes with labels. That made it a lot easier to find the “Stockings with Seams” and the “String Too Short To Use.” If I were to die tomorrow, my children might be unable to locate my old knee highs and all the short pieces of twine that are part of their inheritance, not to mention the yellow crime tape.
Next, since I had my resolutions organized, I felt it was my obligation to encourage my friends to do the same. Mostly my group text was ignored, but I did get a few people who, with crafty foresight, planned to seize 2014 by the throat and take charge of their lives.
My friend Ms. P from Tennessee said she intends to eat more sugar, exercise less, spend more time singing in the shower, take up twerking at the gym and put “go-go juice” in her cocktails (I think it’s a Tennessee thing). The Red Bull, Mountain Dew and sugar combo should do wonders for her energy level, and no doubt she’ll have untold numbers of looky-loos lined up at the gym windows hoping for a glimpse of the Sexagenarian Tennessee Twerker.
Another responder was my nephew-in-law, Mr. D from GB. The story of his 2012 resolution was nothing short of amazing. As of our conversation, he was 11 months and 26 days soda free. Presumably he made it to year’s end, although he can be impetuous. He also started out last year by swearing off fast food, but he fell off the wagon somewhere near Clovis after coaching a track meet. I’m not sure if it was a victory celebration or if they were drowning their sorrows in fat. By the way, Mr. D resolves in 2014 to embark on a seven-day Dr. Pepper binge that was to begin Jan. 1.
A source who wishes to remain anonymous vowed to forever after stay off Interstate 210 on Dec. 26, and at all costs, to avoid hanging out with her family over the holidays. Maybe she’ll reconsider with some time to mellow out — the 210 is such a nice road.
Anon No. 3 resolves to be more mindful of her toilette après the ladies’ room. She found her “barn door” open way too many times during 2013 and fears that once long blouses go out of fashion she may be unduly embarrassed, cited for sexual harassment, or both.
And finally, my sister texted to say she’s going to strive to be more like her perfect older sibling. I think that’s a fine idea — she works way too hard at her dance studio. I’d be happy to be her mentor in the study of “Zen and the Art of Butts in Deck Chairs.” There’s a guide available from Amazon, and as I recall, the first chapter is “Letting Go — How to Put the Twerking Life Behind You.” Perhaps Ms. P will join us!