The puker, at a younger age. You see the laundry. You can always see the laundry…
I enjoy the acme of foolishness that is goal-setting and resolving to better myself. This year, as in the past, I got a sick kind of kick making a list of the things I am not yet good enough about. (i.e. Ending a sentence with a preposition is something up with which I will not put.) Am I the only one who believes that the magic lies in the enumeration of the weaknesses? Surely at the end of the year my inventory of defects will be just that much shorter.
About a week ago I made my usual catalog of these “resolutions.”
Today, to that, I say derisively: pfffft.
Perhaps it’s because my baby has been sick all week, and I am back to day-long pajamas and too much puke and poop to keep up with the laundry much less the laundry list of desired personal traits. Perhaps it’s because I read in Anne Lammot’s newest book: “We will be called to survive unsurvivable losses, and we will realize with enormous pain how much of our lives we’ve already wasted with obsessive work or pleasing people or dieting.” Perhaps it’s because (gasp) I am almost 30 and a few of my resolutions haven’t changed in 15 years.
Today, for this one year, I resolve only one thing.
Whenever I get a piece of floss that isn’t quite long enough, I will not wrestle with the short ends and struggle to make it through my mouth on that inch between my pinched fingers. This year I will just get a new piece of floss.