New Year, New You - if you believe that all the cells in your body are replaced every 12 months. So we were told, right? I don’t think that’s the case. The brain, for example, stays constant, which is good, because the idea of the cells handing off memories to the new cells would probably end up like a game of Telegram, and after 15 years you’re convinced your first kiss was not on a boat in the lake on the 4th of July but deep in the Amazon forest on a dugout canoe during a meteor shower.
I don’t think your liver renews itself, alas. It has to sit there and take it. The bones, being the tentpoles for the cellular circus that is You, have to remain solid. No, the New You is entirely a mater of will, of resolutions and revelations undertaken on the First of the Year with solemn gravity, so you can be disappointed with yourself two weeks later.
Resolutions are always matters of self-improvement, and this presents a certain amount of difficulty. I’m at the age where the available options for self-improvement consist of the trivial and the insurmountable. Example: I should resolve to be more patient on the road with drivers who dawdle along a few miles below the speed limit, perhaps giving me adequate time to study the various political and philosophical statements glued to the rear of their auto. Why - why yes, you’re right, you cannot hug your child with nuclear arms. You also cannot defend the continental United States against the threat of ballistic bombardment with maternal limbs. A more pressing issue might be thus: Can we make the green light? No, we’re not going to make the green light.
I would indeed be happier if I could accept with zen detachment the lumbering pace of the car ahead. My impatience, my self-righteous desire to arrive at our destinations before Haley’s Comet arcs anew through the heavens - well, it brings me no joy. But this will not change. What’s the phrase? To thine own self be true. Well, being peeved because the driver ahead of me believes their face will ripple with G-forces if they go 21 MPH is my true self, and I am not about to deny who I am.
I could say “I resolve to be more relaxed about getting to the airport,” but again, this is my nature. I cannot be relaxed about getting to the airport unless I chew a Xanax the size of a manhole cover. I will always be packed the night before, arrange for the cab to arrive three hours before the flight, and have my personal carry-on item stuffed with books and chargers and snacks. Napoleon invaded Russia with less forethought.
My family would applaud this resolution, but they would know I was constitutionally incapable of adhering to it. Nor would they resolve to be less relaxed about getting to the airport. The best I can hope for is this: “You resolve not to bristle like electrified hedgehogs when reminded that the departure time is generally fifteen minutes after the airplane doors close, and this should affect our plans” That always sets them off. Well, that, and getting there three hours early. Which is really two hours and 45 minutes early, because of the door closing. Tell you what, let’s stay at the hotel next to the airport. Then we can get there two hours ahead of boarding. Compromise?
I could say “I resolve to drink more,” just to see people’s reactions. You mean water, right? Well, there’s water in it. Okay, but uh isn’t the point of a resolution to improve yourself? Oh, I’m a much better person when I drink. Less judgmental, more tolerant of the foibles of my fellow man. Certainly less contentious about the logical fallacies in people’s bumperstickers. In fact I should start in the morning.
Might as well just skip the resolving and make a note on your calendar for late February: I did not fail because I did not try. I’ve been doing that every year all my life, and I hereby resolve to keep my run unbroken.
I like arriving everywhere on time, which generally means to me what it meant to my father: ten minutes early. I would rather sit for an hour at the gate than stand in the security line worrying that I'm going to miss my flight or, G-d forbid, be compelled to *run* through the concourse to make it. I like my layovers to be a minimum of an hour too, just in case.
But, sorry James, I'm the guy driving the speed limit or, at most, three miles per hour over. I get passed a lot. Thirty years ago I was a fast -- way too fast -- driver, the kind who would flash his lights in the fast lane if the fellow ahead of me wasn't taking this passing business seriously. Now my friends tell me I drive like someone's grandmother.
“I did not fail because I did not try” would make a good bumper sticker.