These two greetings are synonymous in my household: “Happy New Year”/”Time to Diet.” After two holiday-filled months of carbo-loaded meals, never-ending Christmas candies and cookies, and alcoholic toasts to everything from Feliz Navidad to Auld Lang Syne, it is time for that annual ritual called (yikes) A New Year’s Resolution. After all, isn’t this the time that attaining every goal seems possible? (I’m trying to psych myself up here.) I mean, 2011 is in its infancy, all huggably baby soft with nary a blemish. So this is when I say to myself with the same intensity that Jillian Michaels saves for contestants on The Biggest Loser: I can lose those twenty pounds! I can get a new job! I can clean out fifteen years of crap in the garage!
But the time to act is NOW. Because soon February will be upon us, where our newborn year into which we put so much hope turns its Terrible Two — a screaming, tantrum-throwing little Damien — and then all we want to do is walk away and leave the year with the nanny or drop it on the front stoop of the local fire department. (“Little ’11 was so adorable and hope-inspiring as a baby, but as a toddler, watch out for the hair-pulling-hold-his-breath-till-he-passes-out hissy fits.”)
By February, this not-so-new year will only inspire me to roll my eyes, throw up my arms, and ask with dripping sarcasm: “Weight loss? Who am I kidding? New job? At least I’m employed. Garage crap? What’s another year of junk?”
So I raise my last mimosa of the morning in a toast to this New Year. May 2011 remain full of possibility at least long enough for me to shed a pound or two and hold onto a shred of hope for attaining perhaps another goal. And if Little ’11 gets all bratty and stubborn before I’ve accomplished a thing, well, then there’s always the unblemished hope of that precious baby girl, 2012.