I don’t like New Year’s resolutions and try not to make them. It seems like a recipe for disaster to me to forge new promises at the darkest, bleakest, most depressing point in the year. Aren’t we all desperate for change? Don’t we all just want to be thinner, younger, happier, more better? Sure.

Plus, it seems like when everyone fails to fulfill their resolutions, it gives you a kind of permission to do the same.

Typically, I make resolutions (in whatever form) around my birthday, which is in the spring, which, to me, is a sensible time for beginnings.

But let me say that sure, there are things I want to accomplish in 2010, the calendar year, and I might even write those things down and track them as if they were “goals,” but not resolution.

A resolution is something that mends. It concludes. It decides.

How final! Instead I will shoot for the moon. I will probably miss. But I will surely still be among stars.

One thing I really need to recommit to is my exercise routine. My back injury barred me from gym visitations for more than three weeks now, and let’s just say that back injury + no gym + food-based holidays = yuck. Let’s just say my jeans feel like they belong to someone else now.

But I’ve enjoyed sleeping in. I feel like I’ve been having an affair. With my comforter. It’s luscious.

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