A Resolute Failure
I look back at almost 20 years of failed New Year’s resolutions.
By Terence Loose
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ometimes, in my
rosier moments, I picture a world where everyone accomplishes their New Year’s
resolutions. Or even just one. Think of it. We’d have a world of very fit, very
educated, very rich novelists who were nice to their in-laws. Gyms would
replace Starbucks on every corner; fast food and alcohol would be as extinct as
Sylvester Stalone’s acting career; no one would ever watch “The OC” again. It
would be a world so devastatingly driven we’d really need that big
end-of-the-year bash.
My own
introduction to the New Year’s resolution came early, in 11th grade, when I
resolved to earn a date with Deena Foster by the end of the school year. Yes,
that Deena Foster, the one who was going out with Laird “Super Jock” Kamber and
who hung out at all the right lunch tables. Wild? Impetuous? Impossible, you
say? Sure, but isn’t that the essence of the New Year’s resolution? After all,
you determine them in a highly intoxicated state, with music pumping and
balloons all around. They’re bound to be full of hot air. In fact, they’re
nothing less than what you dream yourself to be. So unless you’re Brad Pitt or
Kobe Bryant, or you dream of “working out every single time I really feel like
it,” they are akin to Green Party candidates: full of ideals, fueled by
altruistic intentions, fun at parties, but ultimately, doomed to crushing
defeat.
Looking back on
it, my dream date with Deena was no different, although I didn’t know it at the
time. For over a month I made sure I was everywhere on her route between
classes. I hung out against the hallway lockers and walls, trying hard to make
sure she saw the “good” side of my Flock of Seagulls hair. I “bumped” into her
at football games and pep rallies. And finally, it happened. One evening, as I
was being carried out of a jock party by two linebackers with acceptance
issues, she turned and said, “C’mon, guys, just leave him alone for once.”
On the curb
moments later, I decided to call that a victory. To this day, it’s the closest
I have come to truly realizing a New Year’s resolution. Since then, it’s been
all down hill. Here, then, is that painful slide.
1988: I will
dress better. At the time, I called this one accomplished. Looking back at the
photos, I call it a fashion failure at the highest level. In my defense, I
embrace the “Right, but it was the 80s,” defense, which covers everything from
hair and clothes to music and the use of the word “babe” between male
businessmen. Don’t believe me? Go to www.80smusiclyrics.com and click on
Kajagoogoo. I rest my case.
1989: I will track down Deena Foster and date her. Before you
scream, “Stalker,” let me explain. This was the year I turned 21 and I was in a
college frat. Basically, I drank anything that didn’t have a safety cap – and
half the stuff that did. The morning after this resolution – correction, the
afternoon after – I came-to, took it back and substituted a no drinking vow,
which lasted all the way to the Lakers game that night.
1990: I will get buff. First, let me
explain something about my body type: it could be characterized as “marathon
runner without the muscles.” Regardless, I ended up in 24-Hour Fitness speaking
to a tight-shirted Tad about how with a mere $20 a month – or, if I wanted to
be smart as well as buff, I could pay the entire $425 commitment – people were
going to be calling me Ahnold in no
time. Things didn’t go well right from the start, however. During my free
analysis and regimen formulation, Tad suggested I work with free weights for
raw bulk. I lay on the bench press; Tad loaded a few “warm-up” plates on. He
spotted me up, then let go of the bar. It dropped faster than the Nasdaq a
decade later and I was pinned to the bench, legs kicking, like a mouse in a
trap. After that, the free weights lost their pizzaz, as did my resolution.
Now, I refer to this as The Year of Living Dangerously.
1991: I will figure out what the hell I want to do
with my life. This was the post-graduation year I spent travelling with
a backpack, a tent and two surfboards. I had left the previous November with a
one-way ticket to
1992: I will stop obsessively washing my hands, eat
at a buffet and actually lick stamps. If you know me, you’ll know what I’m talking
about. If you don’t, picture Monk. On a bad day. Needless to say, I never made
it to
1993: I will learn karate. Uh, yeah, that
one. Basically, it was the year of Dragon: The Bruce Lee Story, which I saw
three times, and also represents the closest I ever got to achieving karate
skills. I did sign up for lessons and I bought the outfit, but after getting
bitch-slapped by a 70-pound Girl Scout on the third night, I decided my ego
could not go on. I saved face by vowing to learn to use chopsticks instead.
This, I almost accomplished, and to this day consider them a lethal weapon in
my hands.
1994: I will eat more vegetables. Technically, I
suppose I pulled this off since my vegetable intake prior to 1993 was pretty
much restricted to ketchup. Wait, do French fries count? Anyway, I did discover
a love for carrots. For about a week. Then I decided French fries did count,
doubled my usual intake and called it a win. I figured it made up for the
previous year’s kung-fu failure.
1995: I will learn to play the guitar. My father was a
respected and successful composer. He played eight instruments and worked with
everyone from Frank Sinatra to the Beatles (even though he didn’t like their
hair or John Lennon’s hotel etiquette). So I figured music was in my blood. And
after all, if Meatloaf can play guitar, how hard could it be? Well, it’s hard,
and apparently, during one of my many childhood accidents, I must have lost that
music blood. My instructors will attest to this. The closest I got to rhythm
sounded about like a scared cat trapped in a piano. Wait a minute, the piano.
Yes.
1996: The piano year. No, not the
piano, either. And if you ask my piano teacher, God No!
1997 and 1998: I will write the Great American Novel. I had just
turned the big three-oh and was feeling pretty unsubstantial as a writer, so I
figured a great novel would go a ways toward curing that. It turned out to be a
little tougher than I imagined. My day job was a major distraction, as was the
fact that I am not disturbed, extremely introverted or an alcoholic (since
college, anyway). Still, by March I had some “solid ideas for characters,” and
by the end of summer, I had actually written the title page. I saw the writing
on the wall – or the lack of it – and by the holidays I had lowered my
standards a bit, vowing to write a really good cat book. I spent 1998
struggling with a short story about a man searching for his cat. He never found
it.
1999: I will get to work on time every day. Except, of
course, the morning after this resolution. And when the surf is really good.
And when I “forget” to set the alarm. And on Mondays… Tell you what; I’ll show
up for at least an hour every single day. Counting lunch hour.
2000 and 2001: I will eat more fish. I was travelling
the tropics on a boat during these years, had no cubicle, lived outdoors on the
ocean and ate fresh seafood daily. So there was no need for resolutions, but I
still made a few. I think one was to snorkel more – virtually impossible.
Another was to surf more. Also, there was a fleeting reference to a great sea
novel. Basically, I failed at all of them.
2002: I will get a real job. I was just back
from the boat adventure, with a baby on the way. I had some savings, which was
meant for my daughter’s college years, so I needed to work. But cubicles scared
me more than any sea squall ever did, and I failed again. Education is
over-rated anyway. Bush went to Yale, for God’s sake.
2003: I will quit my job and take my family sailing
again. Yes, I broke down and got a job. Something about a starving baby
makes the cubicle much more attractive. And the fact that I had sold the boat,
my daughter was three years away from swimming and my creditors now knew where
I lived made this one a long shot. So I declared a nightly Jimmy Buffett hour
and called it another victory.
2004: I will give more money to charity. Now, I did write
a few checks. Unfortunately, the one to Christian Children’s Fund bounced.
Twice. So I put it on credit card, declared myself a charity and racked up
another win.
2005: I will not make, attempt or accomplish any
resolutions. Wait, was that one? And did I actually accomplish it?
Without attempting it? I’m confused now. Is there any champagne left?
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