Resolution Retribution

I have about 24 hours. One day until I am supposed to once again come up with a list of half-assed goals, a third of which I'll likely break before the clock strikes midnight. Here's why resolutions may not be my solution:

There was the year I vowed to "be in love" the next year. Look, if wishing it into existence were all it took, I'd be Mrs. Jackman by now, after what I can only assume would have been a tumultuous breakup with my grade six pseudo-boyfriend. Hey Brian, what's up?

Having failed at placing myself squarely within Cupid's sights (over here, you myopic little bastard) I decided I was aiming too high and resolved the following December 31st to achieve the much more reasonable "start dating this year." We've discussed this; I love the flirting, I love the near-the-beginning phase, I even love the sort of mundane day-to-day stuff. But until they come up with some way to skip directly to date three, thus avoiding the silly, exhausting, hair-twirling-if-only-I-had-it-to-twirl bit, I might be screwed. Granted, they kind of have invented a way to skip directly to the good parts of date three. It's called Grey Goose.

I did pretty well with the "expand my culinary repetoire / cook more stuff" attempt. But eventually, I got tired of sourcing spices I'd never heard of that smelled vaguely of illicit drugs, eating the same thing 4 nights in a row, and having only Tallulah to admire my kitchen wizardry. She didn't particularly care for the saffron orzo, as I recall. She eats moths; I hardly trust her palate.

There's the obligatory "get in shape" entry. Some years it's been sort of okay, some years it's been a (lack of) exercise in frustration.  Inevitably, even if I start out guns-a-blazin', something happens (heartbreak, injury, fettucine alfredo), that derails me. But honestly, my gym is about to put my picture on the side of a milk carton, and I'm eating a piece of my Mom's gumdrop cake as I write this, with one of her nanaimo bars warming up in the bullpen. So let's go ahead and take this one off the short list for 2011, shall we?

I also did quite well with the whole "save money to buy a house" one. And now I am the happy owner of a soul-crushing mortgage that pretty much guarantees the only way I'm going to be able to swing my every few years trip to Europe this year is if some Albanian gang kidnaps me so they can auction me off to the highest bidder. I just really hope they don't make me wear that harem-girl outfit, 'cause I not two minutes ago decided that "get in shape" ain't happening. 

There was the year I was in a rut, so I vowed to "try new things". I'm sure there were more, but the two that stand out were taking a cooking course in Tuscany and trying ashtanga yoga. The Tuscan cooking course was always going to be a huge success: I love pasta, I love travel, and I was with my girl Robyn, who shares my believe there's no problem wine and a mixed tape can't solve. The ashtanga yoga was always going to be a huge fail: I haven't been flexible since puberty, I walked in wearing an old concert t-shirt to find pretty much a live-action version of the lululemon website, size tight, and I don't like being asked to grab my ankles by anyone who hasn't bought me a few drinks and told me my eyes are pretty. Lesson learned: less spandex, more ravioli.

So you might say it's been a rather mixed bag of resolution success. This year, I think I'm resolving not to have resolutions, per se. That being said, my lovely friends Neville and David gifted me with the wonderfully whimsical Flying Wish Paper last night. You write down a wish or a pledge, light the paper on fire, and let it burn until it lifts off its little platform, carrying your hopes out into the world.  Okay - perhaps I need one resolution: I resolve not to light the Flying Wish Paper near the sheer curtains. Happy New Year, everyone.