I don't make a resolution list anymore. The grand changes don't happen; big whacks are too hard. And the little things I can manage without a list. Including the eight pounds I'm going to lose (again) in 2010.
I remember when, sometime in my mid-30's, I resolved to be more patient. But I want what I want and I want it now. In practice, there was more teeth-gritting than grace under pressure.
It's taken 57 years for me to come to the idea that patience isn't about giving up my time or my plans or my feelings, it's about finding/knowing my place. Which is not (gasp) the center of the universe. And it's about living now, whatever now is.
I'm allergic to crowds and lines. So I was appalled to be trapped at HEB a few days ago, the afternoon of New Year's Eve, with a full cart, six back from the register. Looked like the entire populace of the county, men, women, children and grand-parents in wheel-chairs, had crowded into HEB to stock their bomb shelters for the next decade and prepare for a party of 100 celebrating the well-lubricated end.
Every register was busy. As we nudged our cart into the back of a trailing line, I figured that by the time we reached the register at the front, my ice would have melted from under the shrimp and dripped into a slippery pool on the floor. And the guy who was thrusting his hand-carry basket in front of him to open a hole in the line would slip and hit his head, cracking it open so his brains spilled across the linoleum in a gooey slick, and the ambulance crew would run in and close down my register so they could carry the twitching corpse out on a stretcher, before they slipped too and another ambulance was called...
I borrowed a magazine from the stand and settled in to wait for the disaster. But I barely had time to read about pumpkin pancakes before we were up to the front and unloading our cart. And I'd had an entertaining time in line with all that action waiting to happen, which maybe says something about why I'm writing a murder mystery.
My only resolution this year is my annual renewal of one at which I've been spectacularly successful:
Make New Mistakes This Year