In the Nick of Time…New Year’s Resolutions Unveiled

I’ve struggled whether or not to publicly declare my New Year’s resolutions.  I’m a giant commitment-phobe, and the thought of saying “Hey, look at what I’m gonna do!” to anybody other than my son’s stuffed whale (the only person I tell all my secrets, hopes, and dreams to), has me breaking out in a cold sweat.  Because if anybody besides me or Whale knows my intentions for the next year, I might actually have to follow through on them, or face the embarrassment of failure.

Blech.  Forget it.  I’m ending this post now, right now.  *runs from the room screaming* *trips on something in the hallway* (Whale is on the floor, staring up at me with his dark, soulful eyes) *sighs heavily, picks up Whale, and shuffles back to the computer*

Okay, I’m back.  So.  New Year’s resolutions.  Here they are:

(1) I’m not going to nit-pick my body.  I’ve been blessed with excellent health, am in the process of making my fourth child…this body has been good to me.  Do I have stretch-marks?  Yep.  Are my arms and tummy flabbier than I would like?  Yep.  Do I sometimes still get a zit or two?  Yep.  But this body has been good to me.  Time for me to return the favor.  I’m going to use it.  I’m going to sweat, and breathe deeply, and sometimes, I’m going to be sore.  But through the process of getting back into shape after this last baby, I’m not going to nit-pick my body.  I’m not going to imagine what it would look like without the battle-wounds childbearing often places on a woman’s body – instead, I’m going to cherish those reminders of the three (soon to be four) most amazing children any parent has ever been blessed with.  Children who exist because I’ve been blessed with a body that could carry and nurture them to term.

(2) I’m going to admit that I’m a writer.  This is a silly little thing that shouldn’t be difficult, but is.  There’s this little irritating voice in the back of my head that says I should wait until I’m published; but this little ‘pastime’ of mine has quickly evolved into something that’s no longer a hobby…no sane person would spend this much time, effort, emotion, tears, determination, and did I say time, on a hobby.  I’m a writer.  It’s what I do.  I may not be the best writer on the planet.  Heck, I may not even be a good writer, yet.  But I’m a writer, working hard every single day to be a little better at it than I was the day before.

(3) I will finish my first book this year.  I will allow myself to put an end to the edits, to the modifications, to the obsessive going over, and over, and over each page, and be done with it.  I will allow myself to finish working on it, and be proud of it.  I will set a deadline, and meet it.  Suck on that, commitment-phobia!

(4) I will play.  With my kids, with the hubster, with my friends.  I will make time to romp, to laugh, to be frivolous, to be loud and live with mirth.  I will not get so caught up in my own life that I forget to enjoy the lives of those I love.

That’s it.  That’s what I’m planning for this year.  The over-achiever in me says the list is too short.  The commitment-phobe says it’s too long.  The tiny little part of my brain that is actually sane says it’s just right.

How about you, dear friendlies?  Do you make New Year’s resolutions?  Or do they scare the shiza out of you?  Or both?

The Death of a New Year’s Repeat

New Year’s resolutions give me the heeby-jeebies. Big time. And yet, every year, I find myself making them. And breaking them, almost immediately. It’s a sickness. Someone should make a pill for it.

For the past, oh, I don’t know, say gazillion years, one of my New Year’s resolutions involves running. That I’m going to start running. Keep running. Find my stride. Enter races. Place in said races.

*Enter daydream sequence here* Que music: Chariots of Fire, of course. It’s a rainy race day; but true athlete that I am, no amount of drizzle will keep me from putting one foot in front of the other in an effort to be the very best I can be. The finish-line ribbon is just ahead. So is one other runner. Some Amazon with long, sculpted legs of steel. She looks like she was bred to run. She’s probably been running since infancy. She doesn’t know how hard I’ve worked; she can’t understand the obstacles I’ve had to overcome (yes, in my daydream, sheer laziness is a plague one cannot blame oneself for; it’s simply a mountain to climb. I told you this is a sickness). My legs pump faster, harder. I cross the finish line first, barely. My opponent weeps out of joy for me.

Seriously. This daydream has to be brought on by some kind of chemical imbalance. Big pharma, where are you when I need you?

Anyway…

I used to run. Two miles every day in high school through my first year of college. I loved running. Not because I was good at it, or fast…oh, no. Not at all. In fact, I believe my running style could best be described as Drunk girl slowly being chased by no one. But it was just me, solitary, on some lonely country road in south-central middle-of-nowhere Kansas. Endless skies. Dusty gravel. Pretty, simple country birds. Cows. Sometimes a tractor or truck would pass by. But it was such a quiet, simple place to be. I’ve never loved running because of how I felt doing it; I’ve loved it because it was a way to be totally, utterly alone.

These days, I’m never really alone. It’s not for lack of opportunity – the hubster is awesome about letting me have ‘me’ time whenever I want/need it. I don’t take him up on it as often as I should – not because it’s something I don’t want, but because I find when I am alone, I still can’t shut off. I can’t get there like I used to. I can’t find a way to get to that flat-line buzz I used to have all those years ago, as a teenager running alone in the country. Maybe that’s one of the caveats to being a grown-up: you can never fully shut off like you could when you were younger. Too many burdens in daily life to accomplish it.

This year is nearly finished. I’m going to turn thirty-three in a few days. And I’m thinking, once again, about what I want this next year to look like. I know I’ll find my way to New Year’s resolutions; it’s compulsive, I can’t help it. And running will probably make its way onto the list again. Not as an ill-fated foray into escapism, but as a means to other ends (namely, shedding baby weight after #4 comes in April). Because I think I may have finally come to terms with the fact that the thing that I was striding for in running is something that’s out of my grasp…something I’ve lost in my adulthood, that has its place only in childhood – that short, short time of life when trouble can be forgotten by simply putting one foot in front of the other.

I know that sounds like a dark and gloomy place to start the new year, but really, I don’t feel that way. I’m as hopeful about this coming year as any other that has passed. I’m just done chasing that particular rainbow. I may never be able to travel through this life without the burdens adulthood places on my shoulders, but I’m strong enough to carry them. I don’t need to escape them. And that feels pretty good – recognizing my own strength, and not shrinking away from life and the curveballs it’s guaranteed to throw at me on more than one occasion during the next 370-some-odd days.

I want to hear about you, sweet friendlies. Does the year’s-end prompt introspection in you? Are you replacing New Year’s resolution repeats with newer, improved resolutions? Don’t be shy!