Resolved.

Yeah, I know it's only December 2nd, but today's the day, really, the Monday after Thanksgiving, on which all New Year's resolutions are born.

The Monday after you've indulged, constipatingly, on crappy or wonderful or somewhere in between food for four days and you realize you've got back fat (or whatever) spilling over your bra strap (or whatever)....

Because, as much as we give lip-service to giving thanks on Thanksgiving, the holiday has become, culturally, about food, and indulgent food at that. (And that's a sad statement on our American culture, but it's a topic for another post when I'm feeling surly, which isn't now.)

So today, the Monday after four days' indulgence, you sit in your slightly tighter pants and you say to yourself that, after Christmas, it will be different. You will eat right and exercise.  And I believe you!  I believe me too, every year.

But there's no sense in starting a diet now:  Christmas is coming, and New Years, and cookies and candies and breads and egg nog and burbon soaked fruitcake.

Can't possibly diet now. 

And you're right. You can't, really. You can continue to exercise regularly, and eat healthy meals when you're not festivalling, but to start a weight loss regime at this time of year is hard, hard, hard. Not impossible. But hard.  Very hard.

I am so with you on that. 

But here's my Post-Thanksgiving Resolution:  I will not engage in self-loathing when I consume holiday goodies. Because it's going to happen....  No sense in ruining the holiday mood by spending the next four weeks hating myself for Rotel Dip and gingerbread cookies. (Not eaten together -- unless that's your thing.  Then rock on, weirdly.)

So I will be of good cheer!  I'll have my healthy black bean soup today. And on the weekend, if a cookie slips past my lips, I shall rejoice in the season...for it is bright and magical and delicious.  Merry Christmas!

Relic

There was a time when I was cutting edge. I knew every new band. I knew every obscurity too. 

And I remember thinking more than once during that period that I would never take my finger off the trendsetters' pulse.

But sometime between 30 and 40, I became a relic. I retreated into my familiar musical cocoon and wrapped myself in Gershwin, REM, Elvis Costello, club music of the late 80s and early 90s, Bryan Ferry, The Smiths, Queen, 10,000 Maniacs, Clint Black, The Eagles, The Cure, Johnny Cash, Pearl Jam, and Beethoven.

I mean, that's all still cool, right?  But it's just not new-and-cool. 

Without even perceiving the shift, it seems that one day I suddenly didn't care what the latest hit was.  I wanted what was comfortable and familiar.

Perhaps it's because I didn't need the music to illustrate my present sense condition like when I was younger.  When I was younger, songs would work through me helping me process emotions, situations, frustrations, love. 

But now and for the past decade or so, the music, instead, has been there to conjure up ghosts.  It reminds me of many happy times. And oddly, even though songs in their moment helped me through sadness and heartbreak, none of them draw forth the melancholy today. (Or maybe I just don't listen to the sad songs anymore....)

So today, when I listen to Left of Center by Suzanne Vega, I don't feel like she's talking about my life anymore. I just remember that when I listened to that song, memorized it, and made it my own, I was the girl who wanted to be Molly Ringwold in Pretty in Pink, and I did my small town East Texas best to dress the part. And that memory makes me smile.

Reminiscing is okay, right? And allowing yourself to mellow?  And my 20-year-old (or more) music is still awesome music. So maybe even if I'm not out on the edge (or even in the popular crowd) anymore, my music's still cool and still talking to me in ways nothing else can. It helps me remember.  And that's still cool, right?

Sixteenth Birthday, I think.....

And Monday....

 

Friday