January
Will go to gym four times a week to engage in vigorous cardiovascular movement, followed by comprehensive weight-lifting routine. Will lose eight pounds and throw away Lands’ End tankini in preparation for flaunting newly excavated abs in a bikini. Will consume sweets in moderation while adhering strictly to food pyramid guidelines.
When approached by an acquaintance whose name I don’t recall, will simply ask for it with an apologetic smile, rather than overcompensating by shrieking a generic greeting, then spending the rest of the (wedding, reunion, playground visit, etc.) praying someone else doesn’t wander up to us, requiring an introduction and revealing me to be the stinking, cowardly fraud I really am.
Will gather three giant boxes, label them “Donate,” “Mend” and “Toss” and methodically go through every room, drawer, shelf and nook in my house until Martha Stewart and employees at The Container Store are so overcome with jealousy they must be locked in padded rooms (tastefully painted in beige tones).
Will no longer obsessively check e-mail, surf Internet and investigate the late-night shenanigans of celebrities as if I expect someone at any moment to thrust a microphone into my hand and ask me to file breaking on-air reports for Entertainment Tonight. Instead, will limit surfing gossip sites to five ten a reasonable number of minutes every evening, just before I watch the nightly news.
February
Will aim for once-weekly visit to gym to walk on treadmill while watching Regis and Kelly and thinking homicidal thoughts about Kelly’s skinny arms. Will lose seven six three pounds. Will not eat chocolate for breakfast unless it’s accompanied by an Atkins-friendly protein—i.e., Hershey bars wrapped in turkey bacon.
Will hone Nancy Drew-like detective skills to ferret out clues about acquaintances’ identities. Repertoire of tricks will include bribing small children to pick the pockets of acquaintances so I can check their IDs, and passing out “Hi! My name is ____!” sticky labels while announcing they must be filled out and worn as a new requirement under the Homeland Security Act.
Will make a start on closets by tossing out ancient work suits with Joan Collins-style shoulder pads and Flashdance-style sweatshirts left over from high school. Even though both were really great looks.
Didn’t someone really old and wise once say balance is the key to a happy life? Besides, it’s not as if Katie Couric is going to give me a knowing look while she grills me on what magazines and newspapers I read regularly. And if she does, I can haughtily say, “I subscribe to People, Ms. Couric. And I believe a photograph of you and your jailbait boyfriend appeared in it just last week.”
March
Recognizing that fitness is something to be approached cautiously, like a small, easily startled woodland animal, will put on workout clothes first thing in the morning, then consider driving by the gym on my way to Dunkin’ Donuts. Will vow to eat only chocolates with pointy tips, such as Toblerone, to conform with shape of food pyramid.
Will confuse people by shouting, “Hi, Sarah!” at them as they approach, prompting them to say, “No, I’m [blank]. You’re Sarah.” Will then stare at them pityingly before gently responding, “But that’s what I said.” If people persist in arguing, will pointedly ask how much they’ve had to drink.
Will at least remove Halloween decorations from mantel, as grinning, backlit skeletal face no longer seems festive.
(Editor’s note: Sarah did not file an update for this month’s progress. When asked for one, she shouted something through the Ho Ho in her mouth that sounded suspiciously like, “Breaking-Gosselin-Brangelina-crisis-OctoMom-plastic-surgery!” before asking if anyone knew Lindsay Lohan’s Twitter name.)
Sarah Pekkanen’s recently released her novel, The Opposite of Me (Washington Square Press, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Inc.).
