I resolve not to make any resolutions for the year 2015. Why disappoint myself? I’m not going to follow them anyway. I don’t even make it for a week. I’m clever enough to justify breaking my own rules for any occasion, which defeats the entire purpose of making a change in my life. Good grief! My life mutates so much that I have enough trouble coping, without throwing any more changes into the mix.
Resolutions assume that I control my destiny. Past experience tells me — not likely. As Woody Allen allegedly said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell God your plans.” I don’t believe in pre-destination. I’m more of a reactionary than a resolver. As they say in acting class, be a reactor, not an actor.
Resolutions assume that there is something about me that needs to be changed — desperately. I have high blood pressure and high cholesterol, but, after losing 20 pounds last summer, neither my blood pressure nor my bad cholesterol dropped. Thanks so much genetics! It won’t do me any good to exercise more or eat more healthily, so I can cross those two resolution possibilities off my list. I’m not sure I have any other flaws that are in dire need of correction.
Maybe I should moisturize more and stay out of the sun. The humidity makes my skin softer, and the sunlight recharges my endorphins.
Maybe I should cut back on my alcohol intake. Sadly, thanks to the POTUS, I can now bring back my favorite Cuban rum, legally.
Maybe I should quit smoking. Too easy. I don’t smoke.
Maybe I should cut out chocolate. It’s an essential part of my carefully-controlled diet.
Maybe I should clean my house more. No one sees it but me, so who cares?
Maybe I should cut back on buying shoes. No, they need good homes.
Maybe I should just cut myself some slack. January, the bleakest month, is no time to torture myself.
Nope, I’ll find every shred of hope I can to get me through January. On Sunday, Downton Abbey returns, which probably calls for a real cream tea commemoration (ie, scones and clotted cream). My vestry retreat follows the next weekend, which means we will pray, plan, and snack non-stop for almost 24 hours (and fellowship is really virtuous). The aforementioned trip to the tropics follows, with deep-fried conch fritters and sitting on the beach, reading, and exerting about 0 calories a day. My favorite show, Justified, returns for its final season, and watching all those folks in the “hollers” slugging moonshine and good Kentucky bourbon makes me thirsty.
In between, there’s a cavalcade of celebrities strutting down red carpets at the People’s Choice, Golden Globes, and the SAG Awards, which means I’ll have a big bowl of popcorn by my side, as I record all that blog fodder to feed our dark little souls!
Finally, Super Bowl Sunday is February 1, which, especially if the Ravens make the cut, means every manner of gut-bombing food and drink. If the Ravens are out of it, I’ll be drowning my sorrows.
My friend Christine alerted me to a segment on “Good Morning America” about online dating.
“How honest should you be about yourself?” one of the slick hosts asked the viewing audience.
Apparently there’s a new online dating site called “Settle for Love,” which encourages people to present themselves “honestly.” For example, don’t shave years off your age or post photos of yourself from high school, as some people do, apparently. The founder actually posts a photo of his thinning hair, so prospective dates won’t be surprised. I get that. While I post photos showing me without make-up in my sun-damaged glory, there’s certainly been a lot of fudging from those that I’ve encountered.
“Getting real,” he says, “is the only way to find love…Admit flaws…Why don’t you show them right now? Represent who you are.”
Conversely, they also featured “relationship expert” Donna Barnes, whose website describes her as “a New York University Certified Life & Relationship Coach, [who] specializes as a Heartbreak Coach.” (Wow! You can get paid for that?) In terms of full disclosure, Donna also runs her own online dating site, which uses something called “Online Dating Protector” and ensures “genuine members.” Apparently, they are genuine only as far as they need to be to follow Donna’s advice for finding love.
“Less is more,” she said. “Too much information is a turn-off…An open book is not sexy.”
Boy, am I dumb. My Mother taught me that honesty is always the best policy. So, it’s ok to say that I’m 5’ 2” tall, which is only true if I’m tottering in heels, but it’s not ok to say that I know how to hang dry wall and really understand football, which is totally true?
In this week’s adaptation of my dating profile, I say that “I won’t sleep with someone on a first date (and probably not on a second or third, either),” which I readily can see is “not sexy.” I also say, “Like my dog, I’m loyal and faithful but a much better kisser.” Ahhhh…I see what my problem is. I’m not trying to be sexy. Now I’m really screwed, because I have no idea what that means. I’m just scary little old me, stumbling through life. Where are you, Justin Timberlake? I don’t just need to bring sexy back, I need to find out what it is, if it isn’t being my true self.
Faith is probably not sexy, so I’ll drop the line about it being important to me, although I did say “I don’t proselytize on street corners.” Oops! “Proselytize” may be a high-fallutin’ word, so I’ll drop that, too. Let’s see, be faithless, be younger, be taller, be helpless, be stupid, be crass, be promiscuous, be a liar. I get it now. Be like the people I see on reality television because no one wants reality any more. Got it.
However, I simply will not use the ubiquitous phrase “I love holding hands on long walks on the beach at sunset and snuggling with that special someone in front of a roaring fire after a night of salsa dancing” that shows up on nearly every profile, male and female (yes, I’ve checked out the competition, such as it is).
I’ll delete, “Yes, I’m really 62 and holding up nicely. Yes, my photos were all taken in the past six months. Yes, I’m shorter than a supermodel.” Be gone, “I’m sophisticated, which means that I know which fork to use and think camping means staying at a two-star hotel.” I can keep, “I’m a modern woman who swears when she drives,” because, truthfully, my bad language isn’t confined to the interior of my car. And swearing is sexy, isn’t it? It isn’t?
There you go! My 2015 New Year’s Resolution is to stop swearing — or maybe just swear less (justifying already, you see?) — so that I’ll be sexier, find my “last love,” and live happily ever after. Perhaps I will try out the beach-fire-salsa line. It must work for some people, right? I might even learn to like snuggling with strangers on a first date. Ha-ha-ha! I love writing fiction. So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!