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As the new year gets underway, the temptation to detest ourselves once again rises and, as if timed to some cosmic tide of self loathing, guilt washes up and tries to drown the peace we had finally made with ourselves somewhere around the end of July last year—especially after that 4th of July pool-party where we were so self-conscious we didn’t even have fun until the seventh beer, the point at which it nearly got us and that poor five-year-old with the unicorn floaties drowned. Man those floaties were cool with the little horns and stuff, and I … we were sure that kid would be fine while we tried them out. But, of course, I’m speaking generally right now.
So, for those of you who would rather just skip the first six months of this year’s going to the gym and eating gravel and tree bark while watching your friends jam Cheesecake Factory and all the booze they can drink into their faces … just DON’T do it. Don’t fall for it again this year.
Instead, set yourself free. Be happy. Embrace yourself—assuming you can fit your arms around you, obviously, but if not, just, you know, take a stab at it anyway and try to find a place to hold yourself that doesn’t require touching any conspicuous rolls that might weaken your resolve.
I just want to offer an alternative to that other thread that is going on around here, however well-intended it is—and of course good luck to all the resolutioners (see, I am fine with making that word up because I embrace the calories of alcohol)—but for those who want to break the cycle of self reproach, break it. Commit to weight gain this year. At least 5 pounds. Seek your inner Jabba the Hut. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Life is short. Besides, all the great writers drank to ridiculousness: Joyce, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Capote … etc. I even heard Stephen King throws a few back.
So, for those of you who would rather just skip the first six months of this year’s going to the gym and eating gravel and tree bark while watching your friends jam Cheesecake Factory and all the booze they can drink into their faces … just DON’T do it. Don’t fall for it again this year.
Instead, set yourself free. Be happy. Embrace yourself—assuming you can fit your arms around you, obviously, but if not, just, you know, take a stab at it anyway and try to find a place to hold yourself that doesn’t require touching any conspicuous rolls that might weaken your resolve.
I just want to offer an alternative to that other thread that is going on around here, however well-intended it is—and of course good luck to all the resolutioners (see, I am fine with making that word up because I embrace the calories of alcohol)—but for those who want to break the cycle of self reproach, break it. Commit to weight gain this year. At least 5 pounds. Seek your inner Jabba the Hut. Eat. Drink. Be merry. Life is short. Besides, all the great writers drank to ridiculousness: Joyce, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Capote … etc. I even heard Stephen King throws a few back.
