Vows

I’m getting a jump on my New Year’s resolutions. Interesting how most vows are wishes we want to happen magically. We begin each January with great resolve and generally meet with failure by mid-month. By February it is either consigned to the back burner or, more often, long forgotten. There is nothing heavier than turning over a new leaf.

I wish I smoked so I could stop but I never started, so that's out. Yes, I intend to drink enough water to launch a rubber duck. One doctor told me water is overrated but another says dehydration is the root of all evil. Well, maybe not all evil.

I’ve given much thought to embarking on an exercise program but even that was more exertion than I could handle. Such an idea goes against my staunch belief in creative lassitude. I’ll settle for another year running off at the mouth with occasional leaps of faith.

Unlike most hearty Americans swearing to cut back on carbs and calories and resist junk food, I have taken an oath to gain five or ten pounds. The doctor has me drinking two Ensure each day before I decompose into a clump of dust motes.

My most challenging vow for 2025 and beyond is to cease writing about Donald Trump. Let this be my last mention of his name. I’m not sure I am up to the task since he has colonized my brain and my psyche.  

I see him in my oatmeal, in my burned toast. When I look out the window at the coral tree, once thick with green leaves, I now gaze at skeletal branches over-pruned by a bunch of zealous guys with chainsaws, and there is Donald again. When I am scanned or spammed it’s him. Enough!

Ever-present as he may be, I am resolved not to write his name again, neither his first name or last or his initials or even an objective correlative signifying him.

I’m setting a high bar for myself, I know. If I had a psychiatrist, I’m sure he’d agree. Such a course will prevent my liver from being bilious. It will save my skin from eruptions. It might even extend my life expectancy by a day or two. 

On a positive note, I want to declare my belief in change. We are always in the act of  becoming, acknowledged or not. Let it be in wonderment if not betterment.