It’s that time again… the Saturday before the big game, er, Valentine’s Day. I’m celebrating the anniversary of the massacre the way I usually do: mockery and giving thought to the fiscal love year ahead. It isn’t my style to go back and review my previous year resolutions, but occasionally I’m guilty of the same sentimentality that has launched Valentines Day into a billion dollar pyramid scheme. Was that too rough? Sorry, lovers.
One of my favorite times about this year is the story. Remembering dear friends departed and their influence on me. There are two in particular in which the absence haunts me as if a piece of me is missing… and they both encouraged my madness with hedonistic zeal I cannot do justice with words. I miss that. A lot. You were warned: sentiment.
Even after 16 years there are new people who don’t know the story. And because I enjoy the story, I’m obliged to give it a quick nod so everyone is up to speed.
Valentine Resolutions are the actual creation of Armistead Maupin from “More Tales of the City,” a book gifted me for my birthday in December 1998 because I reminded the gifter of the central character, Mary Ann. Her exchange on the subject with her friend, Michael, on opening her card from him went as follows:
“Aren’t you mixing this up with New Year’s?”
“Nah. That’s nickel-dime stuff. Smoking-eating-drinking resolutions. These are the — you know — the hardcore, maybe-this-time, kiss-today-goodbye, some-enchanted-evening resolutions.”
And that is where it began. I don’t believe in New Year’s resolutions, but I do believe in Valentine ones: they’re made from the heart.
Last year’s stead involved lipstick wearing, cupcake eating, hair crises, and embracing my craziness. I don’t have any hard data, but I think I pretty much kicked ass–except where I wanted to spend more time on the beach. I still want that. Resolutions don’t simply go away, they just get carried with you while you make them work.
I officially declare this the “Year of the Pull Up!” Sometime last month in working with my trainer I wanted to try the assisted pull up machine at the gym. Training has eliminated all residual pain from previous shoulder injuries and built up a lot more strength; heck, I’m even able to run small sprints again on the treadmill. Nonetheless, EVERY workout I start now with doing assisted pull ups. I’ve worked my way to being able to do about half my own weight in a short time. This year, for the first time in my life, I will achieve a pull up–no assistance needed.
Tank tops. I will work on wearing them more. What’s the point of getting kick ass shoulders from the pull ups if you don’t show them off?
This is also the year I will end the bad relationship I have with my thighs. My thighs are just great… fuck pants.
Being blond is best… I’m going to stick with that.
There are more serious, life decision types of things I want to work on, too… but they have no place here.