In years when I've belonged to a gym, January was the worst time EVER to be there. Like clockwork, all the New Year's Resolution crowd joins up in the first week, and proceeds to hog all the treadmills and elliptical trainers and stare vacantly at the Nautilus equipment. Gym etiquette, that useful code of conduct that makes sharing workout space less odious, is not for them. They'll leave a towel and water bottle on a machine to claim it, then stroll away in search of reading material, which will stay unread as they end up shouting into their phone instead. They'll take up entire locker room benches rather than stow their bag beneath. They won't put the weights back when they're done. They'll take long showers, and chew gum in the sauna. They'll jam hallways, especially those who've joined in pairs and can't be silent, let alone apart, for a single minute. All this for their pathetic -- what, three weeks? -- of effort to become less gross. By mid-February, things are usually back to normal.
I learned to thoroughly disdain the selfish, silly, rude, chit-chatting, new outfit-sporting, you-go-girl New Year's Resolution exercise crowd. So you can imagine the self-loathing with which I announce that in 2008, I plan to:
1. Move more.
2. Eat less.
Obviously that's just the "lose weight" resolution broken down to its necessary components (and there are no other necessary components. Put down the stupid magazines already, and go for a walk). I have no idea if I'm going to lose weight. But I do need to move more and eat less.
It will be very easy to keep those two resolutions; ease which speaks not of my strength of will or character, oh no! -- but of how little I am moving, and how much I am eating, lately. Simply put, I disgust me. I resolve to disgust me less.
You will be pleased to know that my other resolutions are relatively vitriol-free. For example, I hope to:
3. Get more sleep. It is just stupid, this business of staying up late when I don't really have to and then feeling like crap in the morning. I won't resolve to get eight hours every single night, just as I won't resolve to grow wings and fly to the moon. But I do plan to get more rest.
I will also:
4. Floss. I do this already. It's a bonus resolution I throw in so that I can say I'm keeping one, instead of despairing entirely of my worth as a human by early February.
Also, I should:
5. Wear more makeup, more often. I'm lucky to have a pleasant enough face (those who know me IRL, please indulge this harmless delusion) and good enough skin so that I haven't felt the need to use a lot of makeup for most of my adult life. I had a good run, but let's (har!) face it, it's time to call in reinforcements. I don't look like Jodie Foster anymore; I look like a train wreck. Or maybe like Jodie Foster's pudgy, long-forgotten, can't-afford-highlights cousin after a train wreck. In any case, my Clarice Starling days (that first scene, where she's jogging on the FBI training course? looks just like I once did) are done. Sniffle.
I'll never be one who won't be seen by anybody until she's "put on her face" -- that's just silly, not to mention it's a bad example for my daughters. But still, a tad more effort than none is warranted. 'Nuff said.
So here's to the New Year.
You go, girl.