I’m not really one for New Year’s resolutions. I find that New Years is a crutch for people who can’t get motivated. I honestly think that if you find something about yourself that you feel you should change, then begin right now’ this very second. Doesn’t matter if it’s March 22 or the day before your birthday. You just do it. Right that second. And maybe you fail. But you made an effort. You didn’t have this weird hedonistic Fat Tuesday kind of fling with your vice before you stop.
Thus New Years never really holds any fascination for me. The one thing I hate about this time of year is that everyone vows to lose weight and the fast food places all rush to have many many sales and specials on calorie-laden treats. That the McRib comes back every January is no coincidence. I’m entirely certain that Satan is a major stockholder in McDonalds. How else would it explain my unhealthy addiction to McDonald’s Diet Coke? Huh? It’s just an effervescent 32-oz cup of sin and that tingling in my nose is the tingle of brimstone.
Would you like a disembodied tormented soul with your Happy Meal?
But the resolution thing is, I suppose, admirable in a way. I shouldn’t put down those people with New Year’s resolutions. But I think that this ‘saving up your ambition until January 1’ thing is half the reason that 90% of New Year’s resolutions fail. Because if you are that unwilling to change that you must actually set a day to do it, chances are that you aren’t going to be able to change in the first place.
I resolve to lie on warm beaches and be washed in sunlight, drinking $9 pina coladas brought to me by bronzed cabana boys who relish pale plump chicas.
Oy vey.
Besides’. January is miserable enough without adding a bunch of guilt over misguided resolutions that you really secretly know you won’t be able to accomplish.
I resolve to stop sleeping with strangers I meet at truck stops.
I resolve to wear clean underwear.
I resolve to no longer obsess over Brussels sprouts.
I resolve to not slam my sunglasses in the front door. Repeatedly.
Speaking of clean underwear, I got the cutest set from my In Search Of: Expensive Panties expedition. It’s a navy blue demi bra and string bikini panties set with little white snowflakes on it. For those of you who received my Christmas cards, you may recognize a theme there. The panties weird me out. They are so skimpy and weird, with their connotation of coconut oil, two drink minimums and dollar bills deposited by hairy old man hands. The bra is all cleavagy too, and I somehow am pained to think that legions of young girls will think that demi bras are so named for a marginal actress rather than the French word for half. Yet, the print is so wholesome and cute, it’s hard to hate the sluttier aspects of the ‘under outfit’ as a whole. I wore it on Sunday and I had this urge all day to lift up my shirt and say ‘Look at my cute undies!’, like a child with lacey bottoms. I tried to do this to Cheri. She just didn’t seem to think they were all that cute. I don’t know what her problem is. Perhaps it offended her strong moral fiber. Perhaps they were not the undies to be wearing on a Sunday. Perhaps Sundays are for bulletproof Grandma bras with five, nay SIX hooks on the back and elastic that could hold up the entire world at pointy attention.
Or maybe she was just jealous.
It’s probably unhealthy for me to think about it so much.
The Guestbook is obsessed with its socks too.
