The Best Way to Skip Resolution-Making
Before one of our visits, she announced that while we were there, she wanted to have a List Party. With a cake. As soon as she said list party, the idea grew legs. Wings. We all said, Absolutely yes.
Before one of our visits, she announced that while we were there, she wanted to have a List Party. With a cake. As soon as she said list party, the idea grew legs. Wings. We all said, Absolutely yes.
Part of the tension around New Year resolutions, I’ve realized, is suggested by the paradoxes of the meaning and etymology of the word resolution itself.
I have dabbled in piano, even learning two songs by memory just to have a few to play in case I’m zapped back to the nineteenth century and have to play piano in the equivalent of a Jane Austen novel.
I always figured that if I had something I legitimately wanted to change, I would certainly not make a NYR regarding it, because that would be pre-determining failure for the thing I actually cared about.
My favorite picture in the whole world: my maternal grandparents in their Sunday best, walking down a street. It’s a black-and-white picture, and to this day, I’m not entirely sure how they had it taken.
I thought it was bad my first day in the department when a woman came in, lifted up her shirt, and said “I like this bra. Can you find me another one?”
It’s Tuesday evening at the Southeast YMCA, and my squats are getting shallower. Cindi, the weight-training instructor, wanders through the crowded room, counting reps, shouting encouragement.
I can bike down each of Vienna’s alleys. I can scrape my elbow on any number of her streets. Still, the city will never be completely mine.
Every year, the Romans made promises to the god, Janus (hence January), who was often depicted as two-faced: one facing front and one facing back.