New Year's Resolution

Owen flew back to Oregon and college on Friday, and I cleaned his room and changed his sheets yesterday, so I figure the New Year starts today and therefore I must decide on the whole Resolution thing. I do know that technically the New Year began two weeks ago but one must not let technicalities become tyrants, and how the heck is one supposed to make sound resolutions on a day one is hung over and facing hours of clean-up from the massive party the night before, and as long as the kids are here it's still the holidays, and the New Year does not start til the holidays are over--itt's a rule.

I resolved, actually, not to make any resolutions this year because it seemed silly and the road to sure defeat and disappointment, but then I read an interview with one of the guys who've written this book on will power, and he said that although only 30% of people who make New Year's resolutions fulfill them, one still has a better chance of effecting real change if one makes a resolution than if one does not. Okey dokey. Herein be it resolved that I. . . . That I what? Here's where I freeze up. I'm still traumatized by the list of resolutions I drew up a couple of years ago: I sat down and thought, ok, what absolutely must change, and I ended up with something like 38 items, and the last one was "Be less  hard on myself" and I wasn't even being ironic.

So, this year, just one resolution and it is sooo boring and banal and a downright cliche': yes, yes, like everyone else in the Western world, I resolve to lose weight. More specifically, I resolve to go back on Weightwatchers and lose the 12 pounds that I lost two years ago, pounds that had gradually crept up on me during my 40s, pounds that came hustling back home this past year. The lesson is clear: In your 40s, pounds creep; in your 50s, they leap. Ceaseless vigilance is required.

Honestly, I think I look fine, as long as I'm not naked or in a swimsuit or (worst of all) in jeans without a top on. (Hugh walked in on me that way a few weeks ago and burst into horrified laughter.) "Muffin top" hardly does me justice--more like one of those giant scoops of ice cream gorging over the side of the cone. Still, I'm not a swimsuit model or a porn star and I usually do remember to put a top on, and so the only person who sees me regularly in such conditions is Keith, who--bless him--continues to want sex with me anyway. And I live in Louisiana where obesity is such an epidemic that my doctor, scarred by what she sees everyday, tends to think I'm anorexic.

So why then worry? Why bother with Weightwatchers and all the ensuing self-discipline and hunger and crabbiness and worst of all, the constant self-obsessive thoughts -- oh, can't have that, oh shoot, how many points is that, no better not try that? The answer is simple: my underwear is tight and my bra, even on the loosest hook, is uncomfortable, and I bought this swimsuit two years ago that I really like but can't fit in right now ditto my favorite little black dress. Basically, I don't wanna buy new undies, I hate bra-shopping, and damn, it's such a cute suit and I do love that dress.

No, that's not true. Well, all of that is true, but there are other factors:

1. To lose weight, I have to return to exercising regularly. When I am exercising regularly, I feel sexier. So we have sex more often. This is a big deal to Keith. He's a good guy. He deserves big deals.

2.To lose weight, I have to drink less. Descended from and related to a veritable crowd of alcoholics, I think maybe this might be a good idea. Damn. And heavy sigh.

3. Keith now weighs less and is in better shape than at any time in the period I have known him. He's become Mr. Fitness. If we continue on as we are, we'll be able to illustrate a new edition of "Jack Spratt and His Wife." This is not a future I want to contemplate.

So, hey celery and carrot sticks, happy new year.