Doesn’t that seem like a lot?  Maybe for some people, but hey–I need ’em.

I love making lists of any kind:  to-do lists, grocery lists, music-I-need-for-my-iPod lists.  Lists give me a sense of anticipation and a psuedo-sense of accomplishment (which, admittedly, is sometimes as far as the accomplishment goes.)  But my favorite lists to make are about self-improvement:  things I want to do and the person I hope to become.  It’s gratifying, and fun, to dream on that piece of paper.  So as you can imagine, I’m a big fan of New Years Resolutions.  It’s like an institutionalized excuse to spend several hours (or days or weeks) making lists that are all about, well, myself.  Sign me up!

As with every year, I began my list intending to Keep It Simple, an aspiration manifested by the friendly, fourteen-point font that I use.  (I figure the bigger the font, the more the words will leap out and motivate me.  It’s not an exact science, but I can offer testimonials.)  It started innocently enough:

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I wanted (needed!) to get back in shape, I wanted (needed!) to exercise more patience with my family.  These were worthy goals, but as I hammered away on my keyboard I thought, as I always and tragically tend to think:  I should do more.  If a little patience in my character is good, then a thoroughly refined character is better.  Next thing I know, I’m adding words like humility and empathy to my long list of Improvements Needed.

And if working out three days a week is good, then working out five days a week–no, six!–is better.  (And wow could my jolly holiday tush use it.)  And so the six-day exercise regime–along with a diet outline and motivational tips–are typed into subcategories beneath my formerly simple plan of working out only three days a week–a naive goal which now embarrassed me.  My sights were soaring and it my fourteen point font was soon reduced to a twelve, and then a ten, point size.  (See, it all needs to fit on one page so I can print it out and tape to my closet wall, where “the goals” can work their magic on my subconscious every single day.  No better time to remind yourself to “work out six days a week” than while you’re pulling on Spanx in front of a full-length mirror.)

No my blood was really starting to flow.  I’d set a physical and emotional goal, why not shoot for something mental?  Okay, this year I’ll write more.  No, I’ll write every day, including Saturdays.  No, wait–Sundays too–don’t be so lazy!  I punched the words into my keyboard, watching with satisfaction as my jet black instructions took form on the blank white screen.  The reprimand felt good.

My fingers hovered as my mind scoured about for more shortcomings.  Let’s see…in what other areas was I failing?  Oh yes, of course–spiritual.  Okay:  family scriptures, every weekday morning.  No, every morning, don’t be so lazy!  Kids at the table, 6:45 sharp.  And family prayer every weeknight–no, every night, or else why even bother?  Consistency is key, mom–I know it’s your weak spot, but too bad for you.

And what about my temporal goals?  Where to start with them?  Detailed chore charts (morning/evening/daily/weekly) and an exhaustive list of home improvement projects (repairing/organizing/decorating/de-junking) flew off my fingers before I could form them into sentences.  My panic rose with the number of exclamation points I was using:  Organize the crawl space under the stairs–permanently!  Slow down and listen to people!  Learn how to do family history–THIS year! Stop running late all the time!  Oh, this was grand. It was like taking a wet vac to my sloppy insides, sucking it all out for an overdue cleaning.  I needed it.  I deserved it.  Didn’t I?

Actually, I didn’t.  None of us do.  We don’t deserve the self-flagellation* that hyperbolic goal setting can give us.  I think it’s a cross between a Love of Lists and a Hatred of Self.  Okay, so I don’t exactly hate myself.  But I am hard on myself.  And I bet you are too.

I remember a few years ago in early January, after hours spent perfecting one such New Years Resolution list, I flopped down on the bed next to my husband and explained to him, point-by-point, all the things I was going to do to Truly Improve Myself and Become the Person I Was Meant To Become.  When I was finished (after a long while), I took a breath and met his eye.

“So, what do you think?” I asked.

“Honestly?  I think there’s something you could add to that list.”

“Really?”   I shuffled through the categories in my head–physical/spiritual/emotional/mental/temporal–yep, all covered.  What was he talking about?

“Why don’t you set a goal not to be so hard on yourself?”  This sounds a bit trite, but he was sincere.

And so am I.  Set a goal this year to do your best–or maybe, like, 85 percent of your best, whenever you can–and after that, set a goal to not be so hard on yourself.  Each new year reminds me that I am (and you are) getting older at a rather alarming rate.  Now we are the Selves we’ve spent a lifetime creating, and it would be a shame if we missed out on them because we were so busy planning our Next Selves.  A new year can motivate us to improve, but at the end of that year, you are still you and I am still me.  And guess what?  We are becoming the Person We Are Meant To Become.  We’re just doing it slowly–one, not eleven, resolutions at a time.  And it’s the slow stuff that sticks.  So this January, when you look forward to a new year of new possibilities, be sure to look back at the all the  good things you’ve already done–are already doing–and congratulate yourself on another year well lived.  That, you deserve.

* * *

*On on of our first dates, I used the term “self-flagellation” in a story I was telling my future husband.  He unwittingly thought I’d said “self-flatulation” and had a tremendous, fourteen-year old boy laugh over it for many, many years.

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/spaceodissey/2580085025/”>spaceodissey</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/”>cc</a>

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No joke.  It cost $14.95.  We never, and I mean never, buy popcorn at the theater.  But tonight–call it carpe diem or plain ‘ole holiday gluttony–the Hub showed up at the seat I was saving him with a big fat bag of the salty stuff.  I was surprised and pleased to see my beloved embracing life in this manner.

“Ooh, popcorn!  To what do I owe?” I raised my eyebrows, smiling as I shoved a greedy fist into the kernels.

“I don’t know, it just sounded good.”

“Awesome!  Fun!”  I’m big on awesomeness and fun-ness, no matter how lame a form they take.

“Yeah..it was kind of expensive…”

“I know, it’s always a ripoff.  How much was it, exact–”  Just then the lights dimmed and a loud preview jumped from the screen, silencing my interrogation.  No matter; I decided to forgive his extravagance and enjoy this rare glimpse of Vacation Derrick on the mainland for a couple of hours.  The movie was good and by the time the credits rolled,

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all concerns over popcorn costs were forgotten–until we walked past the snack counter on our way out of the theater.  The glare of the neon menu items caught my eye and I read over them, starting with the smallest “combo,” which advertised a large popcorn and one (one) large soda for $14.95.  This was the exact offering that Derrick had given me in the theater, but I knew that, surely, this sign could not be displaying the correct price for it.  Surely, for $14.95, you could buy one large popcorn and one large soda for six, or eight, or twelve or fourteen different people.  Surely, this price was some kind of discounted rate for buying popcorn and soda in bulk–like maybe you were getting thirty dollars worth of popcorn for only fifteen.  I assumed all this because, surely, there was no way, no-how that my left-brained, Type A, enginerding husband had just paid fifteen bucks for a lunch sack of pig feed.

I continued my rapid scan down the symmetrical line of lit-up signs only to discover that the $14.95 combo was, in fact, the cheapest deal on the menu.  It only went up from there:  $16.95 for one large popcorn and two large sodas; $18.95 for two medium popcorns and two large sodas and, get this:  $20.95 for nachos, a candy, and two large sodas.  Twenty-one dollars for a handful of corn chips, a squirt of something-other-than-real-cheese, and a half-empty box of candy.  (I swear they put a regular-sized amount in a king-sized box.  Have you noticed?)   Twenty-one dollars for a snack at the movies; that’s more than the cost of two tickets.  Or, to put it even more disturbingly:  it would buy over two-thirds a bottle of Pearatin.  With that realization, I whipped my (gorgeously Pearatined) head around to the Hub in alarm.

“Fourteen ninety-five?  For a bag of popcorn?  Are you kidding me?”

“Yeah, well…I didn’t really notice the sign …you know..before I ordered…”  His voice trailed off to an incomprehensible garble, which is every husband’s sweet spot when trying to avoid conflict.  I’ve long suspected that ellipsis were originally invented by Adam for the sole purpose of dodging just such questions from Eve.

Looking down at the bag of popcorn cradled in my arm, I noted with disgust that it was still eighty-percent full.  We had only eaten two inches down from the top.  Which meant, in sum, that we’d paid fifteen dollars to eat about three dollars worth of popcorn.  And by “three dollars worth,” I of course mean three cents’ worth.  If that.

The obvious solution?  We took the bag of now cold, coconut-oil-coagulated corn home with us, convinced that if we fed it to our kids, the purchase would somehow be justified.  I thought searchingly of the Depression, World War II, and the shameful era of Japanese internment camps, when a mother would dig up rotten potatoes in the snow with her gloveless, freezing fingers in order to feed her young.  (Actually, I’m pretty sure they had food in the Japanese internment camps, but listing it with the other two struck just the melancholy quasi-historic note I was going for.)  The point I’m making is this:  if my great-grandmother could dig up potatoes for her kids, I could certainly spend too much on popcorn for mine.  Maybe the analogy isn’t airtight, but I figured as long as I could shove some of that popcorn down their throats, the fifteen dollars it cost could be deducted from  the grocery column of our monthly budget.  I mean, if we had a monthly budget.

It has now been eighteen hours since we came home with the popcorn and so far, the million-dollar baby is still sitting, untouched and alone, atop our kitchen counter.  But like all Mothers Who Sacrifice, I am determined that the popcorn will remain standing until eaten by my grateful children.  (“Think of all the children in the world without fifteen dollar popcorn, you ingrates!”)  And if for any reason my kids snub it (they’d better not!), feeding it to the dog is a good Plan B.  She’s not too picky about food gone cold, and the overpriced nature of the fare will suit her–have you seen what dog food’s going for these days?  Either way, I’ve concluded that my husband’s reckless spending has now afforded me a fifteen-dollar spree of my own, and you can bet it won’t be on popcorn.  Do you know how many e.l.f. Lip Plumpers fifteen bucks will get me?  Look out Target.  Baby’s comin’ back.

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Shopping’s done, wrapping’s done, parties are done, school is done, cards are almost done (they’ll be a few days late, but I’ve come to terms with it.  Please have your obligatory-reciprocal card ready to send to me.)

About this time every year, I actually start to enjoy Christmas, when I can finally sit down, draw breath, and take it all in.  The tree, the lights, the decor–it’s all so much prettier when my to-do list is completed.  I’ve now reached the point of the season where I have to concede, as I do every year, that Christmas is actually a pretty good idea.  I have to concede, in fact, that I absolutely love it.

And the best part?  Now that my evenings will no longer be spent standing in line at Costco (I’ll miss you, hot dog/soda combo), I’m thinking-hoping-praying that I may just have a little time at night for, well,  you-know-what: a good book.  (Sorry, hon.)

And I mean a good book.  That’s where you come in.  Can you recommend something fabulous for me to read this winter break?  I’ve read several books over the last several months and every one of them was so blase, I can’t remember any of the titles.  Maybe I’m just getting mush-minded in my middle age, but so little seems to grip me anymore.  I know there’s moving and memorable books out there, I just can’t seem to track them down.  I’m looking for something of the Thousand Splendid Suns/History of Love/Atonement variety: epoch, sweeping, romantic, heartbreaking, and above all, beautifully written.  My reading time is so limited these days, I want to make sure I spend it wisely.  Will you help me?  I will act on any recommendation you give, with one condition:  that whatever you suggest is more literary than this blog.  I’m thinking that won’t be a problem.

In return for your book recommendation, may I share a last minute music recommendation?  I’ve never been a big MoTab fan, but I came across this today and for five minutes it took me out of my kitchen into another world.  Finally, an underrepresented Christmas carol sung the way it should be.  Grab a tissue and enjoy.  And have a merry, merry Christmas.