The Freelance Retort: No Resolutions

I don’t make resolutions…other than I won’t make resolutions.

Neither New Year’s, last year, this year or any year.

No resolutions for me.

I mean what’s the point?

You’re either going to do something or you’re not.

Saying you “are” doesn’t get it done.

Getting it done gets it done…no matter when you do it…even if you don’t say it you’re going to do it.

And if you’re silly enough to “resolve” to do something…and you don’t…then you just feel dumb for not doing it…on top of being silly.

So you’re silly dumb.

Or dumb silly.

Either way, you don’t feel good.

So no resolutions…at least not for me.

If you still want to make them, go ahead…just don’t say you haven’t been warned.

So…having said that…I’m going to lose some weight.

15-20 pounds worth.

And if you’re saying to yourself, “Hey, isn’t that some sort of resolution?” you shouldn’t, because...one—talking to yourself looks weird…and two—it isn’t.

It’s just a fact…a fact that I have to face and get done.

And I know I will…this time I will…because I’ve done it before…at least 25 times or more over the last 37 years.

About 500 pounds gained and lost and gained and lost over that time period.

Not good…not good…scary not good.

Not when you put it that way, which you didn’t…I did.

Some of you might be saying...again?

We've been through all this before.

Remember the "Fat Summer" debacle from a couple of years back?

Yeah....

But that’s okay, because I’m going to drop the weight...again…all of it…most likely before spring.

And I’m not being brash or bold or overly confident…I just know.

I just know when my body has had enough and finally takes over for my head.

Mostly because it’s tired of nearly passing out from lack of oxygen every

time it bends over to tie its shoes, which are really my shoes, and not my body’s shoes…but that’s an issue for another day.

Possibly St. Swithin’s Day…if I remember to pencil it in.

So lack of oxygen is key… plus the fact that it’s time consuming to constantly remove the roll of fat that hangs over the waist band of the my pants and slips into my pockets, every time I need to get change.

I’m also tired of constantly “starting” these weight loss adventures only to give up after a couple of weeks…or really, more likely, a couple of days.

I mean how long can a fella go hungry before he gives in to the temptation of that gallon of Hagen Daz that just happens to be sitting in the freezer…of your Great Aunt Hilda’s house three states over, and two states north….on a Tuesday afternoon?

I mean can it be any more tempting?

But if I’ve learned anything from the past, I know once I put my mind to it, it will work.

The first week is tough, and the second week is even worse.

And the weekends harder even still.

Wooziness, crabbiness, hallucinatory confusion such as when your friends begin to look a lot like Pork Chops.

All tough....

But if you can get by all of that, mostly unscathed, because let’s face it…there is going to be some scathing…you then start to settle into a comfortable routine, where for the most part you’re not even thinking of stealing the Kibble from your neighbor’s cat, anymore, who to be honest, could stand to lose a few pounds herself…the cat, not the neighbor.

Then the first two pounds fall off, which eventually becomes four, then eight, then ten—the magic number that either motivates you to keep going or tickles you enough to stop…and pretty much start the whole cycle over again, something you always swear you’ll never do…again.

While you’re mulling that over, you indulge a little, but tell yourself it’s just the reward you’ve so richly earned. You’ve lost 10 whole pounds, two and half inches off your waist and you can pretty much get your hands in and out of your pockets again without pinching yourself.

Of course, at your next weigh-in and waist measurement, you find you’ve plateaued or worse, gained a half to a full pound back.

Either way, you get annoyed but quickly hunker down and jump right back on that horse, which is, at the same time, inspiring and disturbing, because you have no idea how a horse got into your house in the first place.

Hopefully, the horse is a pleasant horse that doesn’t try to buck you off and pretty soon you’re down 15 and people start noticing there’s something different about you…even to the point of asking if you’ve finally thrown away that 20 year old sweater you constantly wear to parties.

Then, before you know it you’ve reached your goal, or gotten close enough so that your friends start asking you how long you’ve been sick, or worse, if you’ve made any decisions as to who’ll get your new flat screen TV…you know, when the time comes.

Now, finally, you’re able to take a deep breath of contentment…but find that your pants are slipping to your knees, so you make a note to dig out that smaller pair you bought the last time you went through this trial, a couple of years ago.