Reading yesterday's crisp, wry and very funny piece by Guy Trebay in the New York Times Fashion and Style section got me thinking. I don't make New Year's resolutions. I've never participated in the seasonal, fantastic, champagne-fueled promise-making at year's end. There's much about myself that could use changing, don't get me wrong. I've just failed to see the effectiveness of swearing an oath of self-improvement en masse.
But this year, I choose to fly in the face of my own reluctance and Mr. Trebay's understandable--and witty--scepticism. This year, I have some promises that just might merit taking the leap and drinking that holiday punch once and for all.
For 2009, I resolve:
To give myself a big, fat break. To stop measuring myself against so many unrealistic benchmarks, choosing instead, to delight in my imperfections.
To laugh more. And louder.
To make sure the people that I love have no room for doubt just how much they mean to me, and how lost I'd be without them.
To commit multiple, creative acts of charity regularly. And to teach my daughter the joy of doing so.
To live free of judgement--as much as possible--judgement of myself, my friends, my family, and the person in the car in front of me driving 10 miles an hour under the speed limit.
To embrace the joy of each morning, even when it begins with a sharp, irritated "Mommy!" over the monitor at 4:30 am.
To live the miracle of every day that is given to me, because I never know when my luck will finally run out.
I know. It isn't an easy list. It might not even be particularly realistic. But this year, I think I have some things that are worth reaching for, some things that matter. All this at far less a cost than my underused gym membership.