Resolutions

“First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.” Epictetus

I hereby publicly state my 2014 resolutions before the tide of rants decrying resolutions as the folly of a made-up Hallmark Holiday. Your scoffing harshes my Seasonal Affective Disorder buzz.

Get invited to more Stella and Dot parties

(a) Stop sharing my well-crafted argument that equates passing a hat around a burlesque show with toughening up Disney Princesses. No one wants to hang out with a Second Wave Feminist if she’s just going to sour the 7-Layer Dip with her intriguingly crappy philosophy (although one that actually changed someone’s mind on the internet).

(b) Purchase skinny jeans and sparkly top.

(c) Make sure “Stella and Dot Party” is not a euphemism for “orgy” (see: Awkward Tupperware Party, 2003).

Make time to work out.  Make time for myself. Oprah says to do these things.  She is the only person capable of manipulating the fourth dimension, and certainly the only one who could do a whole OWN special on Spacetime and Other Fabulous Unifications, but I don’t have my own cable network and I only have 24 hours per day, and would have jumped like an idiot had you given me More Time as a Favorite Thing Giveaway.

Stay Focused and Don’t Lose Track of What I’m Saying

Make Time to Work Out. Make Time for Myself. Because I don’t have time to do both separately, I need to combine these two. I also need to confess that I would only work out to look good at the community pool’s concession stand when I order a jumbo bratwurst. The first step is admitting you have a problem with mustard.

(a) Research workouts that can be done in the front seat of the car as I sit in the pick up line at my kids’ school.

(b) Research using sweat as a styling aid because time to work out cuts into my already infrequent showering time. A terrible irony in the most Alanis Morissette sense of the word.

(c) If trying to use under-utilized sleep time for waking up and working out, research ways to avoid having children hear when my eyelids open. Take cat burglar class so as to creep out of bedroom, down hall, and into designated work out area without waking said bat-eared, eagle-eyed, curious and loud and demanding children who hate me doing anything without their informed consent.

Start Smoking.  I have three children who are actively trying to kill me; either this will calm me down or it will assist in their mission. (See: Advanced Jewish Mother Guilt)

Be more tolerant. Accept people for using “totes magotes” as an assertion, for thinking flip-flops are acceptable everywhere feet are welcome, and for making Miley Cyrus’s tongue take up one of my brain cells.

Manage Stress.  Stop reading comments on internet articles, in Facebook threads, and left under my windshield at Target.

Learn a language. I choose English. Between “selfie” and “Kardashian” and “Benghazi,” I can’t keep up with the tween speak anymore.

End unhealthy relationships: No longer do I care to regularly end up a crying, drooling mess. No more going to the dentist.

Lose weight. I see I’m keeping my 2013 goal of maintaining a sense of humor.

So, then, Epictetus, it’s the doing that’s left. Isn’t it always?

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