Be honest: How many New Year’s resolutions have you already broken?
I didn’t bother to make any. At this point, I figure, I’ll never change. (That’s what my wife says, anyway.)
I suppose not making a list is both bad and good. Bad, because other people get so disappointed when they can’t change you. Good, because at this point any alterations to remap my body’s GPS unit would be just too much effort.
That is not to say I’ve given up. The doctor says walk, so I walk. My wife says eat, so I eat. The dogs say let’s go outside for the umpteenth time today, so I’m their escort service. My purpose in life is to listen and jump accordingly.
I try not to overdo. There’s no running in my plans; that was fine when I was young and practically invented jogging. Nor do I indulge in gluttonous feasts; some nights there’s nothing better than cheese and bread or peanut butter and crackers. As for the dogs, well, I’ll let them out but I won’t run with them.
I hope to make 2013 just a continuation of 2012. My mission is remission; after that, it doesn’t matter.
My wife said her only resolution is to get out more. She regrets retiring so early because it has left her more spare time than she needs. In spring and summer, she has all outdoors to weed, prune, plant, replant, fertilize, fumigate, trim and replant again. Winter’s short, dreary, cold days keep her out of the yard, though.
Going to lunch with friends more often would take her away from housework and the books, she thinks, but I know better: She, too, will never change.
In any household, chores and activities swell to fill the hours. JoAn does 10 times the housework I do, yet when I’m home, I never actually sit down and relax. There’s always something to wash or clean or fold or cook or repair or find.
Especially to find. Recently there was a story on our newspaper Web site about a woman who was sure that ghosts were stealing items from her house. I believed her, because right around Christmas, my new shirt disappeared, along with my wife’s sweater and our granddaughter’s blouse, which she had given my wife to stitch up.
We searched the four corners of our house. We looked in closets and drawers and under the dogs’ beds, just in case they had become kleptomaniacs. Not once, but several times. We poked into the freezer, because, well, you never know.
JoAn eventually found the blouse deep in our kitchen garbage can. We figure our own household ghosts put it there.
With my shirt and her sweater still MIA, I began to bargain nicely with our spirits and even considered holding a seance to negotiate our clothing’s return.
Right then, I found our missing clothes – in the closet where they were supposed to be but had not been all the previous times we had looked. The ghosts had smiled on us. In 2013, then, I resolve to make them feel at home.