They are often the same, my resolutions, much like everyone else’s. Drink less. Eat better. Lose weight. Write more. Read more. Be kind. And every year I fail in some way on one or all of these.
But every year I think, “This is the year. I will work out, even if my workouts are only walks in the woods or crushingly slow jogs in the neighborhood. I will eat only what I need, eschew cheez balls and gin, occasionally sip rather than daily gulp wine.
I will weigh what my body means to weigh (which is always less, now at 155 or back when I was 125 — oh, to be as thin as when I first thought I was not).
I will write and write and write until I have written what I need to write. And then I will revise, publish, write some more.”
I think, “I will be kind rather than funny. I will make decisions that nourish my soul rather than ones that creep into my heart and stomach at 3 a.m.”
And so it goes. But still, this year I feel really good about my chances.