It is Hereby Resolved
After a week of “crastinating” about making my New Year’s resolutions, I’ve concluded that I really need to be decisive and take the decision-making resins firmly in my grasp. Years of practice at the delaying game have turned me from an amateur into a real pro-crastinator. I can make up a dozen excuses for not beginning my new fitness regime, for example, and they all sound plausible, if not totally self-pitying. My back has been giving me fits lately, which becomes my crutch for total recidivism in this area. It’ll take at least three weeks for the sciatica to subside, during which time I will have developed a muscle strain in (name your muscle group), which will further prompt me to err on the side of caution. You can’t be too careful when you’re my age, goes my irrefutable reasoning.
If I play the achey-breaker game right, I figure it’ll be about the Wunth of April or so before I can fully commit to the torture of getting the body in motion enough to generate a hundred beats per minute for a whole workout. Make no mistake about it, I’m totally determined to make my fitness goals happen, even if I have to resort to “imaging” the workouts again. That must have worked for me before, because i’m still hanging around. As well as hanging over.
But then there’s the drinking thing. I really love visiting with my Rowdy Friends at our favorite watering hole, not to mention the ego stroking attention of the friendliest wait staff in town, at least when I can afford those generous tips. right after payday. If only the eagle wasn’t so dadgum constipated lately, I could probably catch on as a professional gin-taster for Seagram’s. But again I digress. I know that I’ve either developed a weight problem lately, or I’ve shrunk to where there are fewer places to distribute it evenly. I’m going for the latter excuse, but still, I don’t feel so comfortable in my jeans with this “DunLop” problem. I know, I know, they shrink in the dark if you don’t turn on a closet light, but they keep breaking the light bulbs with their hangers, the crafty devils! So along with the exercise program, I’m going to dedicate myself to cutting down, if not totally eliminating booze from my intake. How that is to be effected may not be as easily accomplished as just switching soft drink brands, but hope springs eternal.
I remember the days when I was svelte and fit, although not nearly so clearly as “back in the day.” My wife long ago got rid of all my athletic trophies, except for one. This baby is a statuette of a swimmer coiled to dive from the starting blocks. Except there was a tiny lawn chair placed right behind him, and he was really reaching back to get a good grip before sinking into it.
But even though she’s the world’s biggest iconoclast, who never cut me a minute’s slack, she’s totally supportive in urging me to worki hard to regenerate the feeling one used to get from crossing the finish line the same day as the race started. I’m resigned to never donning the racing togs again, but only because I don’t want to embarrass the younger guys with my still-intact skills. No, I’ll settle for being able to tie my shoes and cut my own toenails again, which is going to entail some serious stretching exercises. And unfortunately, I’ll never run again because of the bad knees (I have a case of “kneesles”) but I plan to become competitive again in the 200-Meter Mosey.
All of which is to say that the fitness plan must be implemented, at some point anyway. But not while the weather is so unpredictable. Or during allergy season. Or when it gets so hot that the horned frogs’ horns start melting. And that pretty much brings us back to next football season. I’ll start with brisk walks from the tailgate parties to the stadium, and graduate to climbing at least two flights of stadium stairs with a beer in each hand. And I’m keeping that lawn chair handy for those times when I’ll need to do a knee bend or two.
So that’s my outline (not a daily schedule, mind you) for a New Year’s resolution for the Max-Relax Generation. If I make it through this year, I’ll indulge in my usual period of afterglow gloating, and most likely buy the house a round to usher in the next year’s empty promises.
George Thatcher
January 02023
George is an American Bad Ass. He grew up in Jersey, flew B-52s in Vietnam, taught English, Spanish and other languages to children around the world, makes his own salsa, has been known to enjoy a beer or two and has called Lubbock home for a few years, just to entertain the locals. Welcome to Raiderland, Major. We are going to feature some of his writings going forward. Some new, some old. Some rhyme, some don’t. When it comes to George, there’s no box. So… enjoy our friend and enjoy his writings! – Hyatt
