It’s almost February. I know this not because of the cold
weather, or glut of presidential holidays, or because the idea of
wearing short-sleeved shirts seems totally ridiculous. I know this
because of the guilt. You see, February is the month when I become
an Official Resolution Failure.
It’s almost February. I know this not because of the cold weather, or glut of presidential holidays, or because the idea of wearing short-sleeved shirts seems totally ridiculous. I know this because of the guilt. You see, February is the month when I become an Official Resolution Failure.
I know I can’t speak for everybody. There are always a few over achievers out there who actually stick to their resolutions and have lost 15 pounds and have organized their shoetree by now. (And you know who you are.)
But me? I’m the other kind of person. The kind who marches into February five pounds heavier, wearing mismatched snow boots and wondering just how everything could go so wrong.
And, really, it’s not like I’m the sort of person who resolves to find a cure for cancer and take up figure skating and swim the English Channel and change the world or anything like that. Believe me, my aspirations are much, much lower. In fact, this year I only made one resolution: I would be more relaxed. No matter what horrendous things happened around me, I would smile in a Zen sort of way and project an inner serenity much like the mothers you see in orange juice commercials and television sitcoms.
Let me just say that life since then hasn’t been easy. In fact, so far this morning, I’ve said three very unzenlike things. I said, “Get in the car this minute!” I said, “I’m counting to three and those shoes better be on your feet OR ELSE!” And I said, “Stop hitting your sister or I’ll give you what for!”
And I’m not even going to mention what I said to the car that cut me off in the school parking lot.
Maybe it’s me, but I have a feeling that all of the weeks I’ve spent reading self-help books on Eastern meditation and deep breathing are pretty much down the drain. Especially since none mention yelling as an approach to relaxation.
And it’s not like I haven’t been trying. I’ve become an expert on how to get in touch with my inner-self. I know how to pose in the lotus position longer than most Buddhists, and I can open and close all seven of my chakras at will. But crazy as it seems, none of these things has seemed to help.
My friend Shirley suggested that I try sitting down for a while every day, taking deep breaths, and think about nothing. Now, granted, I’m more than happy to try this.
After all, how many times in your life does a person have official permission to sit down and think about nothing without being called unflattering names?
But the problem is, you see, hats. As soon as I get my mind cleared out, all sorts of other things I haven’t had time to think about lately creep in. Like, you guessed it, spring hats. I mean, why does almost everyone look silly in them except Julia Roberts? Which is better, canvas or straw? Wide-brimmed or floppy? Why isn’t there a good way to get rid of hat hair? And on and on.
This, my friends, is exactly the kind of trap they warn you about.
So I stop and gently empty my mind and start over. Which is fine except now I’m thinking about the fact that I have no idea where spiders go in the winter. What if they’re upstairs sleeping between the summer sheets? Hiding under the ottoman? Lurking behind the sofa? And what if an exceptionally giant one, 18 times bigger than a cat, is hibernating inside the woodpile on the side of the house!
On second thought, maybe the best plan is to be more like my friend Linda, who ironically enough, is stress-free every February because she doesn’t make any resolutions at all.
But, of course, this is too late to help me this year.
So, for now, I guess I’ll just stick to thinking about nothing. But I hope it brings me results fast. I don’t know how much more relaxation I can take.
