I was cleaning out a stack of papers yesterday, and found a list of New Year’s Resolutions that I had made a few years ago. Among other things, it listed:
- Lose 10 pounds
- Stop procrastinating (in March)
- Clean out all that junk from the garage
Boy Howdy! Now, I’d have to list, among other things:
- Lose the 10 pounds from two years ago PLUS the 10 pounds I’ve gained since then.
- Just give up on the procrastinating, because I’ve waited too long.
- Clean out all that junk from the garage AND the shed AND the storage unit!
Yes, those are some of the things I’d have to cite IF I were going to make a list of New Year’s Resolutions.
But, I’m not.
My only “resolution” for the New Year is to resolve not to make any resolutions! Why do we torture ourselves with those? The goofball who started that practice ought to be locked in a room and forced to listen to William Shatner “singing” Christmas carols for a year.
I don’t believe that I have ever been able to follow through with a New Year’s Resolution. Am I the only person who has that problem? All that those resolutions do is produce GUILT, and believe me that I can produce enough of that on my own. “Guilt” is my middle name.
I’ve decided that instead of writing out resolutions this year, I’m going to make a List of Regrets. Yes, I am. I’m going to put each one on a tiny slip of paper. It’s going to take a lot of paper, but I’m going to list everything that causes me to feel guilty. Everything.
For instance,:
I regret that I killed the parakeet when I was in the second grade. Oh, I know I didn’t “kill” him, I neglected him, which caused him to croak. It was my job to feed Peppy. My parents should never have given me that responsibility, because I wasn’t old enough to handle it. They refused to remind me to feed him, because they thought I needed to learn to be responsible. I certainly did! I so loved that bird, but I was a busy little kid. Bless his heart, the bird was in a cage in the other room, and he couldn’t waltz into the room wagging his tail to tell me when he was hungry. We went off on a week long vacation, and I forgot to put out food for Peppy. When we came home, he was belly up in the bottom of the cage. I gave him a nice funeral service with flowers and prayers. I even sang a rousing rendition of “I’ll Fly Away” for him {“Well, some glad mornin’ when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away. To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away. I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away. When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away, etc. etc.“}. I thought it was a nice “send off,” but I’ve had nightmares about killing the bird ever since (and that’s a long time!). Poor Peppy.
I regret that I stole that can of peaches from the pantry and hid to eat it all by myself. Mostly I regret that my little sister caught me and said, “UMMMMMM! I mona tayyel Momma own yew!”[translated from Texan: “I’m going to tell Momma on you!”] I regret that, because I was afraid to get into trouble. If you had ever seen my Momma’s eyes when she got angry, you would understand the fear. For the next year, I did everything that my little sister told me to do, because she threatened to tell Momma. Then, I realized that a can of peaches only cost twenty-five cents (it was a long time ago). I had paid waaay too much in guilt! Yep, I regret all that.
I rue the day that I wore red underwear beneath those skin tight white pedal pushers. Especially, because I fell in the lake with all my friends around. Those skin tight white pedal pushers became see through. Whoo, you know they got a good laugh at my expense, though I didn’t see the humor in it. I thought I would never live it down. At least I had on underwear. Still, I regret it, so that’s going on the list.
I wish I had listened to the doctor when I was pregnant and done those pelvic tilt exercises. These days, I call that bulge around my waist “baby fat,” but my baby is a quarter of a century old. If I had just done those pelvic tilts every day instead of eating two bowls of ice cream (one for baby and one for me), I might be able to zip my jeans without a pair of pliers.
I should have listened to Mrs. Le Beaux, my High School English teacher, when she was trying to teach us how to write. Instead, I was looking at William, to see if he was looking at me. He wasn’t. He was looking at Debbie (because he didn’t have good taste). I didn’t get William, AND I didn’t get how to write. I guess it doesn’t matter now, because I didn’t want William anyway (he’s an old guy now…and I got Mr. Tucker, so who needs William, anyway?).
I wish I had gone to the hospital that day my Daddy called me. I had already dropped everything to drive for an hour to see him three times in the last month. I had a job that day, and I needed the money. It was a bit of a joke in our family that my Daddy was a hypochondriac (with good reason: he had heart disease, cancer, and emphysema). He had been in the habit for years of calling us kids and wheezing, “I think this is IT, come see me.” I always did. Except that last time. Instead, I said, “Daddy, I have a gig to do. I’ll come see you tomorrow.” Tomorrow was too late.
All these things and many more will be listed on those little slips of paper. Anything that causes me the tiniest twinge of guilt will be there. Office Depot is going to make some money selling me paper today.
As we sit around the fire drinking egg nog to toast the New Year, I intend to toss those scraps of paper into the flames. One by one, I will symbolically cast the burden of my guilts away. No longer will those guilts be mine to carry, because I will have offered them to the Universe and given myself forgiveness. I can start the New Year with a clean slate, and hope I don’t fill it before the year is out. Heck, I might even lose that ten twenty pounds just by losing the guilt!
I just thought you’d want to know this, so that when you see the glow in the sky (in the direction of North Texas) you don’t become alarmed.
The Aurora Borealis hasn’t shifted.
There is no need to call the Fire Department.
It’s only me.
Technorati Tags: New Year’s Resolutions, Guilt, List of Regrets, humor
