New Year's Resolutions

New Year’s Resolutions for 2008: Get bathing-suit ready by springtime. Eat less bread and chocolate. When running errands, park minivan at farthest point away in lot and power-walk to door, strengthening biceps by dragging along protesting kids. Practice rhythmically clenching stomach muscles in line at supermarket while reading about Brangelina in tabloids.

Diary entry on 9:01 a.m. on January 1, 2008: Exhausted from long trudge to door of Whole Foods. Buy dark-chocolate bar (organic, though) to revive oneself. Whole Foods has no tabloids! How can this be? Buy dark-chocolate bar to console oneself.

How can it be springtime already?

My bathing suits have somehow all shrunk during their long winter hibernation. Time to whip myself into shape. Time for a diet.

No! I’ve tried dieting before. It never works for me. Is it humanly possible for anyone with young kids to stick to a diet? There was even a story about this in The Washington Post this past winter – apparently parents of young kids consume an average of something like 1,000 extra calories per day, mostly in leftover grilled cheese crusts and half-eaten Oreos, the ones with the stuffing already licked out. (I may have exaggerated the 1,000 calories part. Could’ve been 100 calories. Blame my kids: They’ve shot all my brain cells with their sleep-deprivation experiments).

What was my point? Right: shrinking bathing suits. What I really need to do is exercise. Must buy new workout clothes, as old gear afflicted by same mysterious wasting illness as bathing suits (how can I catch this illness? Sleep in drawer?) Will definitely start vigorous cardiovascular program tomorrow, commencing with brisk three-mile jogs. The trick is to make it part of a routine, a ritual as unbreakable as brushing teeth or stealing Oreos from the children.

But… it’s raining (technically barely drizzling, but I sense a monsoon may be looming).

What I really need to do is to go on American Idol. Everyone who goes on American Idol magically loses twenty pounds. Sadly, watching American Idol with bowl of Tostitos on lap does not translate into similar weight loss. Could singing be new, unchartered territory in world of dieting? Will warbling “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” every night cause me to shrink a dress size, or will neighbors pelt me with contents of their refrigerators, causing them to lose weight and me to seem chubbier by comparison?

What I really need to do is to catch the flu. A little bout of flu is the easiest way to lose 10 pounds. Daily three-mile jogs seem more frightening than sleeping on the bathroom floor for a solid week. Plus it will be easier to guilt-trip husband into taking care of kids and keeping my scandalzine supply stocked (note to self: must tell husband to pick up antioxidant-rich dark chocolate bars along with Brangelina tabloids).

Or maybe, just maybe, next year’s resolution should be to gracefully accept the metabolism-slowing aspect of the aging process. Perhaps true wisdom and inner peace can be achieved only when one lets go of society’s unrealistic pressure to stay fit and slim.

Nah. If any of you have the flu, could you e-mail me so we can set up a time for you to come over and breathe on me?