This Year, Let’s Work On Being Real
I swore I was never going to do this again. Last year, just about this time, I promised myself I would make no more “iffy” promises in the form of New Year’s resolutions. The disappointment when I fail is tough.
But that was last year and this isn’t. Besides, I’ve got a whole new approach. I’ve decided to make it easy on myself in 1998. No more grandiose vows to whip my body into a replica of its 17-year-old self.
No more solemn pledges to metamorphose into a brilliant combination of Martha Stewart and Julia Child. This year, the KISS principle applies.
That means Keep It Simple, Stupid. My ex-husband used to say that to me - a lot.
Anyway, it makes a heap of sense to set myself goals that are a bit more realistic, even though it’ll mean giving up the notion that with just a little extra effort, I can attain perfection. I’ll explain my motivation.
A hundred or so years ago, when I was a college freshman, I found myself trapped in a psychology class with a professor who wore squishy-soled shoes and whose eyebrows were totally out of control. In fact, I remember thinking they were considerably longer than the hairs on his head.
He loved to lecture. He’d pace the podium - hence, the “squish-squish” of his spongy soles - and carry on something awful. Arms flapping in the stale air, he’d get lost in a discourse on the most microscopic nuances of human behavior. The man loved to talk. On the first day of class, he set a trap for us.
Squish. Squish. “If something is worth doing,” he threw out to his puzzled audience, “it’s worth doing well.” Squish. “How many of you agree?” My hand shot up. He stopped, mid-squish, and eyeballed me like I had just crawled out from under the dumb-rock. “Why?”
Why? I didn’t know why, other than that was what my mother had always told me. And mother knows best, right? Not according to this guy. His rationale was that man, being an imperfect being anyway, should learn to live without the guilt thing dumped on us by parents, teachers, mothers-in-law, and the guy whose parking spot we swiped at the mall.
That explains why I’ve decided to whittle down any inflated ambitions I might have had for myself in 1998.
1997: Walk three miles every day, no matter what the weather. 1998: Walk three miles every day if the sun is shining (which eliminates six months out of every year here in northwest Ohio), and when I’m not in the mood, shrug my apathetic shoulders and frequently remind myself that perfection is not an attainable objective.
1997: Learn to cook and then … do it. At least five times a week so I can pack creative leftovers into little plastic containers for my lunches. 1998: Cook something, preferably edible, at least once a week. Make lots of it. If it doesn’t turn out, take empty plastic things to school so everyone will think I’m normal.
1997: Keep up with the ironing. 1998: Iron only the parts that stick out from under my sweaters, and believe that no one in the teacher’s lounge is going to catch on.
1997: Make the bed every morning. 1998: Get over it. You live alone. Who’s to know?
1997: Be prompt, resolute, concerned and never again forget to take my shoes to school on snowy days. The kids think it’s funny, having a teacher schlep around in laceless combat boots as she explains the finer points of a descriptive essay, but any day now I’m expecting to be visited by a representative of the Professional Standards Committee who will look down her nose at my feet and suggest I consider that job in the toilet seat factory. 1998: Explain that a 25-sentence description of the boots is today’s writing assignment.
1997: Fix everything that’s broken, immediately, and if I can’t, worry myself sleepless about it. 1998: Establish priorities. If I’m warm and dry, and the cat’s not peeing on the sofa, the rest can wait.
But most of all, I’m going to remind myself that perfection is not a lovable trait. I’ll make a list of those nearest and dearest to me, and jot down what it is I find most appealing about them. Odds are that high on the index of endearing qualities will be fuzzy-edged phrases like: “She just makes me feel good about being me,” or “He thinks I’m special even when my hair is hanging in my face and my slippers are on the wrong feet.”
Nowhere on that list will we find: “She’s a perfect size 4,” or “He eats wisely from the food pyramid.”
Think about it, folks. Time to get over your raisin’ (as my Southern momma used to say). Let’s make 1998 yet another year of gross imperfection. Only this time, let’s celebrate our flaws. We could all use a good laugh.
xxxx