Are you one of those scary people who keep New Year’s resolutions?
Then skip this and return to Planet Jenny Craig, from whence you came.
If, however, you’ve given up all hope of achieving such goals, let me be the first to encourage you. A decade ago, I discovered a unique approach that revolutionized New Year’s Day.
I learned to make only resolutions I will keep.
Please note the effortless beauty of the following examples:
I promise I will not mow our lawn in January.
I will give up earmuffs for the Fourth of July.
Check out my actual 2021 resolutions, whose success rates left those of Jenny Craig aliens panting in interplanetary dust, including:
I will refrain from topping my waffles with pickles.
I will, however, break world s’more records, as our children gave us a patio firepit for Christmas. This mother wants to make her children happy, so no sacrifice is too great.
My next resolution should prove doable for 95 percent of the world’s population: I will blame COVID-19 for everything. Conventional therapy points fingers at spouses, parents, kids and in-laws. Instead, blame COVID. This is cheaper and less complicated, as no virus yet has been named in a lawsuit or divorce.
Speaking of COVID, I also resolve to wear a mask in public. Even if most are designed to fit your average antelope.
I’ll still greet all checkout personnel and other shoppers with a smile.
If the pandemic endures, I’ll continue my role of Invisible Pickup Customer. Despite reservations, confirming emails, receipts, pickup signs and angels blowing trumpets where I park, I will continue to elude pickup personnel at each and every store.
Out of deep concern for the local economy, I will order takeout. Three times a day.
In 2021, I will talk to my microwave more than to humans. Which probably is good, because mostly I yell at it to shut up.
I resolve not to camp in Dead Women Crossing, Oklahoma.
I will continue to brighten the days of IT personnel and car mechanics with the astute diagnostic phrase, “It doesn’t work.”
I will regard all device updates as tools of the devil and Russia.
I will not lift my car to clean its underside.
I resolve to write in cursive, though my grandchildren believe I am using hieroglyphics. Not surprising, as I helped build the pyramids.
Finally, I will stumble through playing and singing one praise song daily, thankful that my childhood dog — who howled epithets when I sang — no longer critiques me. Fortunately, Jesus and Hubby like it.
See? A simple, innovative approach. Profound. And free. (You only pay for shipping.)
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you ready to take the resolution leap in 2022?
On sultry summer days, do you sit on the porch — more likely, bask in air-conditioning — and ponder profound issues?
Skeptics might claim we’re procrastinating. We don’t want to mow or weed the garden for the 500th time. Or battle Japanese beetles that may as well own deeds to our rose beds.
No, I truly look for answers to my questions, including:
Unlike highway medians, why can’t our yards and gardens be declared prairie preservation areas?
Why would anyone invent platform flip-flops? A friend asks this question daily, as falling off her fashionable footwear put her in a walking boot.
My question: why would anyone buy them?
When temperatures sizzle, are you tempted to splat and zoom on a Slip ’N Slide®? (Me, neither.)
Do others feel embarrassed — and relieved — that their campers include air conditioners?
Why do summer mornings smell better every year?
Why do beach lovers strip down to strings — some wore pandemic masks bigger than their bathing suits — yet other bathers don more clothing than in January?
Why would anybody believe romaine should be grilled?
What summer food sometimes outranks (gasp!) ice cream? Though a lifetime addict, I believe on the hottest days, a chilled watermelon slice tastes even better. Besides, I can spit seeds at my spouse.
Why does my three-year-old grandson’s face, smeared with blueberries, appear adorable when my own toddlers’ gooey, blue kisses sent me running for my life — and a washcloth?
Tarry blacktop conjures teeth-gritting images of road construction. Endless balky traffic. Detours to Timbuktu. But does its fragrance generate positive memories for anyone else? Sweaty bike rides on country roads to a mom-and-pop store to buy icy, 10-cent bottles of cream soda? Or yakety cycling with teen friends to a bookmobile?
People are named June and August, but who’s named July?
Why do some summer outdoor wedding guests look ready for a Hollywood photo shoot, whereas other perspiring attendees — not me, you understand — look like they spent the afternoon in a dunk tank?
Which is best: lightning bugs, glowworms, or fireflies?
Why does the ice maker malfunction only when temperatures rise above 90?
Ditto for air conditioners. And freezers.
Which songs are hummed most during summer: Beach Boys’ hits? The ’50s classic, “A Summer Place”? Or “Summer Nights” from the musical, Grease?
While riding in the back of a pickup at 65 mph doesn’t carry its former appeal, do we children of yesteryear miss those wild, warm, nighttime breezes, the lavish, starry show above?
Thankfully, we don’t miss out on summer evening scents. Don’t they smell better every year?
Especially when neighbors mow grass. And nurture beautiful flowers.
All while I ponder these profound questions of summer.
Your Extraordinary Ordinary: What weighty quandaries fill your mind during summer?