After too many years to admit to and untold fits and starts, at my ripe old age there is only one — count 'em, one — New Year's resolution I have ever successfully managed to keep without fail.
Never under any circumstances should one ever savor a martini outside of one's domicile. As the voice of experience on such matters no good will come of this.
Really, what's the point of resolutions anyway? They are made in earnest and with the best of intentions to better ourselves only to fall victim to the realities of human frailties. The New Year's resolutions to lose weight, stop smoking, exercise more and be better organized are little more than cruel reminders that faux Spartan discipline will always be trumped and chumped by a cheeseburger and the vicissitudes of life.
For the past 30 years or so, I have steadfastly resolved that this will be the year I master hitting a driver off the tee. Thirty years of frustration, lost golf balls (well not so much "lost" really, as simply irretrievable from the water hazard) and self-loathing pity has been the result.
I should hardly be surprised, since all the other clubs in the bag are equally mystifying. But ever a sucker for punishment I recently purchased a new driver from an Edwin Watts store that is closing. If past performance is any indication of future returns, this stick, too, will eventually join the burial ground of golf clubs in the garage.
I have made an annual pledge to finally begin the penning of a novel, a fool's errand by any standard — only to be confronted by a mocking empty page. I only know the vague plot involves the murder of an editor, but I have yet to resolve how to dispatch the poor sot, or who to blame, or even whether I want the crime solved.
Each year, the Bombshell of the Balkans and I contemplate turning the landscaping into a mini-Gardens of Versailles, lush with color and thriving vegetation. We are delusional. It is often said of couples that there is a lid for every pot. In our case we forged a simpatico union of two people who complement one another in our collective ability to assassinate every plant we purchase.
We are the Lowe's nursery department's Angels of Death.
Our neighborhood gives out a Yard of the Month award. We have never been contenders. We would lose out to a landfill. Even the wood chips, which we hoped would cover up a multitude of sins for our landscaping shortcomings, have died.
When it comes to resolutions it is probably always better advised to only commit to stuff that is reasonably within one's ability to actually control. For example, professionally, I should make an honest, good faith effort to stop using so many, and unnecessary, commas. That, don't you imagine, seems entirely within my grasp, more or less.
In recent weeks, perhaps to get a head start on the new year, I've begun to cut back responding to miffed readers who insist on continually sending me half-wit chain emails claiming Barack Obama is a Kenyan-born, Marxist tool of Moscow who insists on taking $85 billion vacations while plotting to take away everybody's guns, including their bazookas.
I began to finally realize their is no upside in engaging people who are so far out on the lunatic fringe they make the tea party look like the Age of Enlightenment. I'm a slow learner.
Who knew that as we enter 2014 the delete key would become my newest resolution I'm sure to keep?