The New Year has always been a prime befuddler for people like me: indecisive losers.
That and Lent. For most years, Lent (40 days where Christians give something up that’s supposedly dear to them… it’s really subjective) has been the time I give up Lent. This means that for forty days, I give up the act of giving things up. Then when it’s over, I’m like “Okay! Ready to give things up!” But unfortunately… the occasion has passed.
The New Year, in the past, has been difficult for me. If I actually give things up, who knows how long I’m going to stick to it? Six or seven minutes? Six or seven seconds? It’s just impossible to say.
Last year I vowed to myself that I’d eat more soup and learn how to fly. Not half-assed flying, like flying a plane or a kite or an RC plane. No. I mean, sprouting wings and soaring, a beautiful spectacle which a small child in the streets would see, interpret, and tell his grandchildren decades from that moment.
Nothing big, just flying, you know.
I believe (or I believe I believe) that if I really, really need to, at some point… I will grow wings. If I fall off of Mount Kilanda in the miasmic world of Final Fantasy, they will erupt from my back in a shower of sweet, pearl-coloured feathers that cleverly conceal my scrawny and unattractive build. And I’ll fly.
This isn’t a resolution, is it…?
I think that my resolution is to make Erin as happy as I possibly can. If that means buying her things, writing for her, drawing for her, eating a whole whole bunch of raw, ground beef while she loses five pounds so there can be this huge awkward gap between us so she, a petite 110, can feel the skinniest she’s ever felt because I’m a huge fat mass of complete slobbery…
Well. You get it.
I’ll do all that. I do things for her because I love her.
My New Years’ resolution is to make Erin happy, to love her, to keep her safe, and counteract every doubt or insecurity she throws at me.
It’s worked so far, and I trust it will now and from here on out.
As I lay here on my bed, eating ice cream (getting a head-start on the raw beef project) and listening to “Cigarettes in the Theatre,” I think that maybe one day, this’ll all make a really good story.
My grandchildren will be blessed with a grandfather who is a good, honed storyteller. He may smell like complete shit (due to not having bathed since he graduated from college) and he might chew with his mouth open, but he will buy them all books, and round them all up and sit with them in the den for Story Times.
Here he’d tell them of his courtship with his grandmother. How he fought lions in cages to win her heart- how he fought the dastardly Eskimo Joe and saved the planet from complete annihilation. Their grandfather: an old punk with a very apparent adventurous side.
But how he won his wife, well… the kids won’t know for sure, because she’s so gorgeous for her age, it’s remarkable.
Sometimes I, the grandfather, will tell the truth and describe exactly how my wife and I fell in love, years and years ago. And every New Year, when asked what my resolution is, I’ll say to make my wife happy, by golly. I’ll hitch up my trousers and spit on the tile, and my grandkids will think I’m the most badass old shit to ever walk the earth.
aestheism, not atheism.