New Year. New Me?

I believe that most of us would rank 2020 as our worst year ever. I concede that there are probably some deeply committed introverts who would disagree.

I gave up making New Year’s resolutions years ago because I’d usually break at least one of them seconds after the ball dropped in Times Square. I decided 2021 might be my last chance to finally get my shit together. Precedent is a difficult thing to overcome though.

After 65 new beginnings, I considered myself to not only be incapable of change, but also a woman with the maturity level of a middle school boy.

Would a mature woman watch every single episode of South Park and impersonate Eric Cartman? “No, kitty! My pot pie!”

At my age and income, women are required by an obscure 70s law to wear polyester pantsuits chock full of extra stretch. As a polyester anarchist, I shove my fat ass into faded jeans with holes in them. If the hole happens to be in the seat of the jeans or in the crotch, I wear an oversized t-shirt. Isn’t it obvious I can’t sew?

Mature women proudly wear functional bras that support their sagging breasts. My breasts inform me on a daily basis that if a bra contains underwire, they will break free and give me two black eyes. After work I rip my sports bra off in the parking lot and any customer who approaches me when I’m off the clock should expect to be strangled with it.

A mature woman wouldn’t say what I said a few days after Christmas in 2020. A co-worker from Pennsylvania explained to me that the tradition in her home is to serve sauerkraut and pork on the first day of the year. I suggested that sauerkraut tastes like cabbage boiled in cat urine and stuffed up the ass of a week-long dead body, which is then eaten by a starving dog, who eventually shits it out, apparently onto a plate at her house. She suggested that the Southern tradition of eating black-eyed peas is gross.

As 2021 approached I made only one resolution but intended to make it my own personal Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.

Let it go!

But if I had to let go of all the anger – all the grudges – all the resentment – all the anxiety – all the fear – all the revenge schemes, where was it going to go? The following entries from my 2021 diary provide some clues.

January 1 – I need to quit obsessing about 2020. That’s behind me now. It’s a new year. If I don’t want my head to explode like something in every other scene of a John Woo film, I should probably start taking long walks. Quit being so lazy, Kat. There’s a nature trail two blocks from here, for fuck’s sake.

January 28 – All those daily walks on the trail in the woods have been so energizing. Now I feel like lifting some weights and maybe even adding some crunches to my routine.

May 17 - After months of walking and working out, my faded old jeans don’t fit anymore. Unfortunately, I can barely get the door open to the spare room where all my smaller jeans are stored in boxes. It’s time to organize that damn mess.

August 23 – Would you look at this room? It took a while, but I can see the floor for the first time in years! My books are shelved and alphabetized by author. I’m eager to quit watching YouTube videos and begin reading again.

October 11 – How could a published book suck so much? I could write something this dreadful.

December 28 – With 2022 almost upon us, I’ve established a writing schedule that works for me. I’m on Chapter 14 of my new novel and even though I’m a bit biased, it’s really good!

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(Disclaimer: None of this actually happened.)