More New Years Resolutions I’m Sure Not to Keep
Well, that New Year’s Eve certainly was different, now wasn’t it? Staying at home curled up on the couch avoiding large gatherings of alcohol-infused morons, prodding yourself to stay awake to watch the ball drop, only to find yourself passed out beneath your Nanna’s crocheted quilt blanket with a noisemaker still dangling out of your right hand and a horn pressed between your lips? Yeah, that was pathetic. You looked, and probably felt, like a strung-out heroin addict desperately clutching on to the last vestiges of selfhood only to know deep down that any sense of hope left the building quite some time ago. Or maybe it wasn’t quite so different after all. I mean, isn’t this New Year’s scene I just so painfully depicted eerily reminiscent of the one from 2020 (and for some of you out there with even more pitiful social lives than mine, perhaps these woeful traditions go back much further than that)?
There are some out there who will clamor to label this as our “new normal”, a term I have come to absolutely abhor. Well, fuck the new normal. Why is it that people only seem to use that term to refer to some shitty, new phenomenon that pops up which we are all just going to have to get used to? Why do we never talk about four-day weekends and copious alcohol consumption as our “new normal”? I, for one, have no desire to see the ostentatious revelry of New Year’s Eve celebrations fade into obscurity as yet another casualty of this seemingly never-ending pandemic. And let’s face it, after almost two full years of this crap, we could all stand to have another excuse to go out and drink.
But one tradition I do intend on maintaining, regardless of the circumstances, is my annual column of New Year’s Resolution I’m Sure Not to Keep. I’ve written this column for years now, and of all the resolutions I have penned, I have kept none of them. You know, sort of like your Uncle Harry who always promises to pay you back, but you know you’re never gonna see that money again. But I write them anyway, and that’s sort of the point. And so with no further ado, here is the 2022 edition of my New Years Resolutions I’m Sure Not to Keep:
I resolve to put away my Christmas decorations before Fall of 2022. For years now, I have excused my inertia as nothing more than a sincere love of all things Christmas and a heartfelt desire to celebrate the season all throughout the year. But we all know that is a complete load of crap. And for some reason, my neighbors just aren’t fans of my Griswoldesque light display when April rolls around.
I resolve to stop referring to Lauren Boebert as “that crazy gun-nut bitch”. The term “bitch” is derisive and misogynistic, and should never be used to describe women, or Boebert for that matter.
I resolve to stop eating “Impossible Burgers” and other plant-based meat-substitute products. Each time I bite into them I am forced to confront the horrific reality of the truly inescapable anguish each and every one of those plants endured as they were used to make my food.
I resolve to stop taking compromising photos of my Elf on the Shelf while my kids are asleep. In fairness, our Elf, Arianna, is kind of a drunken slut.
I resolve to stop writing to Scarlett Johansen to ask her what Colin Jost has that I do not. Now that he is the father of the their recently delivered love child, the answer to that question is patently obvious: cocaine and a desk job at SNL.
I resolve to sit calmly and practice my Buddhist meditation techniques while teaching my son to drive, he has been watching videos online and sharing his experience on social media with socialboosting.com for more views. He is set to get his driver’s permit in a couple of months, and I am beginning to suspect that I will not my able to get my hands on enough Valium to take the edge off as he pulls out of our driveway and merges with oncoming traffic.
I resolve to ask more questions of all the vaccines our veterinarian prescribes for the family dog. For all I know, they are using these vaccines to implant GPS tracking devices in him so that they can monitor his whereabouts. Or maybe it is a brain-control formula that will cause him to turn violently against his owner. Either way, I owe it to him to do my own research, which probably consists of reading a couple of unverified studies on the internet with zero scientific citations written by complete whack jobs.
I resolve to finally purchase a gym membership in 2022. Notice I said absolutely nothing about using it.
I resolve to not freak out when my daughter asks me how old she has to be before she goes out on a date. Instead, I will tell her simply and respectfully that the answer to her question is 43.
I resolve to stop arguing with my girlfriend over why “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time” is the absolutely worst song Paul McCartney ever produced. There is no need to argue. I know that she is wrong.
And finally, I resolve to join a Korean boy band and strut the fine stuff that mother nature gave me. On second thought, maybe that will have to wait until 2023…
Steven Craig is the author of the best-selling novel WAITING FOR TODAY, as well as numerous published poems, short stories, and dramatic works. Read his blog TRUTH: In 1000 Words or Less every THURSDAY at www.waitingfortoday.com
