Just a couple of thoughts:
I am not a big enacter of resolutions. Why set myself up for failure? thinkest I. I am, in my heart, a lazy, underaccomplished Lothario with less drive than desire, and resultions just go to show how little I grow in a year-upon-year scenario.
My spouse and I have begun writing letters to ourselves at the new year, establishing things we're concerned about, achievable goals, etc., and then read them the previous year. We're supposed to wait until the new year but we usually read them when we're taking out the Christmas decorations (which is, in fact, the handiest place to store them).
No letters this year, although I am sure I will be forced into it, like I am with many things that end up being worth it.
A couple of things on my plate for attempted resolution:
1) I caught a glance of myself on New Year's Eve wearing red Adidas capri-length track pants and a blue-and-white-striped t-shirt. I looked like a braless tubby American Flag. Also, I looked like my mother, a little bit (although to be fair to her, she has less clashing taste). I should point out that I was at home, drinking some champagne and lounging about indolently, and nothing says indolent like my fat ass in clashing clothes and lack of supportive undergarments.
It's time I take matters into my own hands. I'd like to perhaps have the option of giving birth to a non-Maury baby at some point, and also not lose, like, my feet.
So, it's all Weight Watchers and martinis, and no beer and pasta for Tubsy over here.
It's a good thing that I have discovered the true and firm glory that is the extra-dirty vodka martini. I know, I know, it's so very 1997 of me. It's just, you should really see this belly.