I am tired. I’m tired of resolutions, and celebrating, and empty sentiments, and I am 1000 DONE with good intentions that fart their way out of existence because of lack of hustle from broke-ass scrubs (who definitely are not me).
I dealt with beaucoup bullsh*t in 2016, and though, yes, it made me the man I am today—broad-bellied, buxom, full of sass and potentially an alcoholic—I’m kind of done being the pack mule for problemas. For an extremely liberal crier, I’m actually very pragmatic, and in 2016 people caught on to the fact I have this Herculean ability to rescue myself, plus piggybackers, from amazingly fucked situations. I unfuck people who’ve fucked themselves—plus me—over. Worse yet, I willingly insert myself into these situations as the Mama Panda savior. Time to cut the fat.
I also mean that physically. I lost a lot of weight since I got a dog, and he’s miraculously gained a fuckton of weight since becoming my son, but neither of us are particularly strong. I’m weak-wristed, I have a rotated right hip and a right tonsil that’s apparently bigger than the other, and I live a stone’s throw away from the greatest fried chicken spot in all the hoods combined. I have about as much stamina as it takes to walk from one side of my 850-square-foot apartment to the other, or to catch a train or crosswalk. In short, my survival fitness is probably in the negatives.
Now that I have to prepare for the onslaught of self-justified pussy-grabbers for the next four years, it’s time I return to my most dreaded place: the gym. Crunch and I have had a fraught history in New York City. I don’t like being surrounded by balloon animals, and I get that not everyone is judging me, but they kind of are. Because I’m judging them. In Orange County, I was surrounded by middle-aged women who lived in the gym, and Juice Stops, and their plastic surgeon’s office, in order to stop the clock on their bodies. I at least had that one on them (immortality). Here, I’m competing with the next Olympian, or with a Brooklyn Nets cheerleader, or with some dude who’s competed in Crossfit challenges since he was born. It’s an intimidating place, and I know myself. After Day 1, I’m going to go home, strip down to my skivvies, and examine myself in the mirror until I’ve convinced myself that I see results. Then I’m going to reward myself with a generous glass of wine after a steaming hot shower and never go again. I see the flaw in design here, but it’s gonna happen. I’m hoping that, because my intentions are more sincere this time around (self defense?), I’ll actually stick with it.
Ok, so the plan (note that I didn’t say ‘resolution’) is: not to accept bullsh*t (no appointments, no walk-ins), not even the future President’s; no trans fats; no quitting the gym, if only because you got a great deal on the enrollment fee; and no letting your father’s comments get to you, such as, “You’ve been in the workforce for 5 years now. Why aren’t you making 6 figures?”
If Betty White can survive 2016, you can succeed in 2017.
LOL I just read my New Year’s entry for 2016. I was wrong. I was so wrong.