It being the New Year, I suppose I should make some resolutions — resolutions for the irresolute. My first one is not to write, at least for the moment, about politics or the state of the economy, dreary subjects that have nothing much to do with the hope that should attend a new beginning.
Instead, I will write about my imminent colonoscopy, and how everyone’s been ingesting flavorsome food here at the office as, drearily, I sip from a bottle of Gatorade whose contents look very much like Prestone.
Come to think of it, perhaps it is a good way to begin the New Year, cleansing, you know, and there is, of course, a certain probity involved.
Like jury duty, these tests come along every few years, an annoyance that must be borne. One must be stoic. But, speaking of stoicism, back to my resolutions.
I resolve not to smoke in the coming year. I resolve not to contract any ghastly diseases, and I resolve not to lose my mind, which means, I think, that I must stop playing Scrabble with Georgie, who’s been cleaning my clock lately.
I resolve further not to play fast and loose with the facts — insofar as they are known to me. I resolve not to eat Cheerios in our coffee cups or to leave them in the sink overnight where they will become impossibly caked.
I resolve not to speak ill of myself in 2012. I resolve, moreover, not to take Tim Tebow’s name in vain. I resolve not to caress my incredibly soft cashmere sweaters in public, or to use many words of more than five syllables. I resolve not to relish violence overmuch, only in sustainable doses as on Sunday afternoons when the Steelers are playing.
I resolve not to complain about having to shoulder the coffee-making burden at home.
I resolve not to eat any flavorsome food, or any food at all, for that matter, today.
I resolve not to cease wondering what it’s all about.
And I resolve to order a cosmopolitan and a small Capri pizza for Mary, and a glass of house Chianti and a small Gorgonzola salad for me at Sam’s tomorrow night.