I don’t make New Year’s resolutions. My early drafts usually involve grand plans to drastically change my lifestyle and financial state with a better body and more time to travel. A once-over forces me to eliminate “volunteer in Nepal” and “backpack through Europe.” Later, Whitney. Later. A third look drops the goal “save 2,000 dollars”, as it’s a significant percentage of my overall income, most of which goes to paying rent. So this year, I’ve narrowed my scope.
As I sat by the fire tonight watching River Monsters and talking to my siblings, they began listing their own resolutions. M wants to “treat people better. Maybe. If they deserve it.” K is setting a goal she believes to be impossible: to “relax and quit taking responsibility for everyone’s actions and feelings.” True, it’ll be a doozy. S wants to finish school with a 4.0., to which he quickly added, “and get my leg press over 1000 pounds again.”
This sparked a landslide of goals committed to physical excellence, a realm I can’t very well understand. I think that’s a problem. I can hop on the elliptical machine for 30 minutes or play a (semi) competitive game of soccer, but when it comes to basic physical fitness, I’m embarrassingly out of shape.
Two days ago, as I rooted through old boxes of pictures, yearbooks (which I threw out), and old board games, I found my Presidential Physical Fitness award from the sixth grade. The Presidential award was the highest (and most meaningless) award given, and it required specific times and numbers for pushups, pull-ups, the mile run, and sprints. I can’t imagine my soft, tricep-less, 26-year-old body taking that test today. In fact, I haven’t attempted a pull-up since the sixth grade, a realization I confessed to S, after which we both descended into giggles.
So this year, I will. And I will succeed. I will complete a pull-up. That is my resolution.
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