Then and now

I read a short little piece in the New Yorker today (here) about New Year’s Resolutions, seven months later.

The thing is, to the naked eye, one could say I have been A+ ahead of myself even, in terms of resolutions: what, with all this healthy living, walking, eating, I am a paragon of organic virtue.

But on the inside – I know better. Not only am I the same old, same old bag of warped goods, carrying with me scars from battles that raged during the first 50 “new years” of my life, I have added some on! Why stay with just fifty years’ worth when I can have fifty one!

So, at least looking at the list in the New Yorker, I can boast my superior command over myself: I don’t smoke (never liked the stuff so I guess I can’t claim great virtue there), I keep my weight under control, I try to be nice to colleagues (last week was the exception – I was just getting back at a grave injustice that befell me!), and I don’t carry around a stick.

Or do I? It’s invisible, but sure enough, I think I do carry a stick. Darn it. I’m not even superficially perfect.