OK. I am going to ask the burning question that is on everyone’s mind, and it is NOT whether Lance Armstrong lied through his teeth to the nation.
What is it about the new year that sparks the entire universe to make frenzied, unsustainable commitments allowing no margin of error, saturated with built-in obsolescence and pre- programmed for certain failure, that ignites a downward spiral into cataclysmic depression which jet- propels us to the refrigerator for chocolate and sodas with the highest ratio of caffeine to controlled substance, stretching our already taut nerves as tight as piano wire, and makes us feel as if we’ve been abducted by a whole galaxy of aliens, as we try in vain to transform ourselves into self-correcting savants?
There. I said it.
Well, I, for one, am going on record. Forthwith, I resolve to swear off New Year’s resolutions. The reasons are many, varied, bogus, and totally without merit. I personally would prefer to undergo enhanced interrogation by Oprah Winfry than devise a catechism of annual commitments designed for my own personal edification. Perfection is highly over-rated.
Instead, I have manufactured my “Myopic Matriarch’s Manifesto.” It allows me a cameo appearance without having the starring role.
My logic is nearly impossible to refute…or understand.
First of all, I am living in a mental cathedral of diminished capacity. Like a mutant child, I tend to lower my expectations faster than I can violate them. But what does it profit me if I strangle myself with the guilt of unrealized goals?
This leads to the second reason for my steadfast refusal to reform. No matter how lofty the aspirations, I find I’m always the exception to my own rules. This is no doubt due to a grandiose, and unjustified, sense of self. Recusing myself establishes a license to lower the threshold of accountability without liability, and compromises my possibilities by encasing them in behavioral full-length woollies, with all my humanity trapped inside. Does that make sense? If so, I’ve said it wrong.
In addition, I get side-tracked by self-indulgence. I can’t say no to my whims. I become emotionally bi-polar and adolescently petulant. Then, my alter-ego, the “dowager countess of the confounded and confused,” dominates. It is a conundrum.
So I plan to just boing along in life like I’m in a moon bounce, and no one gets hurt.
Actually, I have decided to make some minor mid-course corrections, although they hardly qualify as refinements.
OBSERVATION: We live in a world where all things inanimate are smarter than we are. There are smart phones, smart cars, and smart homes. There is even a smart fork that vibrates if we eat too fast.
Thus, I have decided to embrace my inner Dumb. There is no need for intelligence on our part. Just look at the recent Presidential campaign. Or better yet, Congress. Technology has condemned us all to be mental mongrels. That alone absolves us of mea culpa. No need to analyze. Our brains are free to morph to balsa-wood. No longer should we rely on intellect rather than strength in the race for world domination. With smart forks, we don’t need either. My new idiom is “I don’t think. Therefore, I am…not.” It’s a scramble down the evolutionary ladder.
Furthermore, I am going to slow down. No more degenerative multi-tasking 24/7. From now on, I’ll single-task, or better yet, un-task 8/5. Simple economics. I refuse to become a casualty of my own stellar abilities.
I want to travel, to channel the spirit of Odysseus. Actually, his name means “man of pain,” and he was trying to return to Ithaca. I don’t want to be in pain or go to Ithaca. I just want to go to Hawaii. However, on a recent voyage, I happened to be in the midst of the most populated security line, when I had an “uh,oh/Kaopectate” moment. I panicked. The line moved like a still-life, and I was jackknifing, sucking in oxygen and blowing out carbon dioxide. By the time it was my turn to go through the indignity machine, I had severe facial contortion. The TSA, naturally, mistook me for a terrorist, and, convinced I had evil intentions, opted for a pat-down. I, meanwhile, tried to keep my eye sockets from erupting, as I morphed into a perversion of Uncle Fester. I now understand why perfectly normal people threaten to blow up airplanes.
It is vital for all of us to make sense of our world. To do this, we create gods, write poetry, tell stories, and make new years’ resolutions, as we commando-crawl through life. I still refuse. I cannot allow my aspirations to exceed my accomplishments. I’ve succeeded wildly. My comfort zone needle will forever waver between average and mediocre.
I vow never to fix things that don’t need fixing – or mend things that do.
Brodi’s book launch for her second book, “Everbound,” is Tuesday, January 22nd, 7:00 p.m. at King’s English. All are welcome.
What a great way to ring in the New Year.