Forget the new year

The problem with New Year's resolutions is that we expect them to last throughout the year, and we expect phenomenal, science fiction-quality things to happen in the span of a year.

Seriously.

You're not going to eat chocolate for the rest of the year? Are you a Sadist?

You're going to go from a flabby couch potato to running a marathon (in a bikini) by the end of the year?

You're going to undo ten years of fast food and lethargy and look like a body builder by Christmas?

You're going to ready every dusty book on your shelf? AND Write the Great American Novel? AND start and finish your Ph.D. in some obscure level of science? (Don't forget single-handedly saving the Amazon Rain Forest. Forget sleeping, friend)

Nah.

Forget one-year goals.

I'm starting small. I'll start with New Week resolutions. By the time I'm eighty, I might have worked up to New Year's resolutions, but by then, I'll be senile enough that every day will seem like a new year. Lucky me. My goals then will be to find my (own) teeth and to Name That Mystery Jell-O Flavor.

This week, I will:

Go to the grocery store. Not eat all the baklava. Stand my ground when that 100 mph gust of wind comes up. Read a bit more of Cokie Roberts' "Founding Mothers." (Not all of it, mind you -- but a bit more) Take a multivitamin sometime during the week. Try to remember to take my meds every day. Or almost every day. Drink coffee. (And lots of it) Watch a chick flick. Do laundry. Not overdraft my checking account. (Note that I did NOT say that I'm going to balance my checkbook; I don't want to get out of my league here)

Wish me luck, friends. A week can get pretty long, you know. But at least there isn't anything about a bikini in there. Or running a marathon.

Speaking of marathons, I just read a letter from a cousin in his early sixties (yes, a first cousin. I'm a baby in the family in so many ways ...). He's getting ready to run his 23rd marathon. On that note, the leftover brownies in the breakroom look tempting.