It’s the New Year, and if you haven’t set some resolutions, I’ll bet you’ve heard from someone else about their own resolutions. I’ve read about them on Facebook, heard about them on the news, and just received an email titled “Four Resolutions Worth Keeping.” I deleted it. Now I’ll never know what they were.
Resolution is related to resolve, so a resolution isn’t so much a goal, as it is a decision. I’m not big on setting New Year resolutions for myself. I’m fine, it’s everyone else who needs changing. (Kidding. Kind of.) The reason I don’t like the tradition is that it infers that this is the proper time to examine one’s life and resolve to do better. Too many people say something like, “I’m going to set a resolution to lose weight in the new year.” They then spend all of December stuffing anything that doesn’t move fast enough into their mouths. I’m not sure if it’s because they are afraid of missing out next year or if it’s that they want to give themselves something to work on.
To me, the proper time is whenever one recognizes that something needs to change. I made and started a couple of significant resolutions this year—in March and October. If I only made them in January, all my resolutions would be things like: move to Arizona, NEVER give my children sugar again, or burn down the house of the person who wrote, “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” (to diverge, go read the lyrics: “say, what’s in this drink?” Really? Is date rape a holiday tradition?)
But there’s so much pressure to write a few resolutions. Drive by an LDS Temple or a gym in January. Look at the parking lot. Everyone is doing it (which is why I wait until February to exercise).
But I’m sure you’re dying to know how I plan to be a better person this year, so fine, I’ll give you a list:
My 2016 New Year Resolutions
Sleep. A lot.
Read. Almost as much.
Lock the pantry door (I’m serious. This is what happens when my children have unfettered access to candy)
Put antlers on my dog’s head. Laugh at him.
Put antlers on my children’s heads. Laugh at them.
Finance the resulting therapy.
Talk my daughter into playing Risk again (it’s not my fault that she and her brother were so busy placing armies in Asia that I ended up with all of North and South America at the start of the game).
Buy a big, satiny blanket.
Wrap up in it.
Sit in front of the fire.
Put out the fire.
Check blankets for scorch marks.
Install a fireplace.
Sit in front of THAT fire, wrapped in the satiny blanket.
Read more books.
Write more books.
Don’t go into a store. Ever.
Buy a large pack of Nerf darts.
Have a Nerf war with my children. Those shooting back are the enemy and must be vanquished. Those who aren’t shooting back are zombies—finish them off.
Eat smoked Gouda and baguettes.
Eat Swiss cheese and ham on crepes.
Eat cherry tomatoes and hummus on Triscuits.
Drink Crio Bru.
Become a cryptozoologist, even if I never find anything, interviewing witnesses will keep me amused.
Plan an expedition to find Bigfoot.
Ride a Pegasus.
Put Trump and Clinton into a celebrity deathmatch. Let a dragon eat the victor.
Invent a giant fan to clean out the inversion.
Take a meteor shower.
Move to Rivendell.
Live in a library where I can hear the comforting murmur of stories escaping the book bindings.
Sentence people who talk on phones in the library to eating dinner with trolls. They drown out the stories.