For many years, I’ve poo-pooed the act of New Year’s resolution-making. I could care less about New Year’s, which means I generally avoid New Year’s-y nonsense, including the year-end traditions, the-year-in-review newspaper articles and those infernal top-ten-lists, and, of course, New Year’s Eve parties, especially ones involving hollered countdowns, midnight kisses (tongue or no tongue, slobber or no slobber) and off-key renditions of Auld Lang Syne. Which means all of them.
Call me a killjoy if you must. In my books, New Year’s is a big disappointment — always has been, always will be. I’m an optimistic, I swear, but New Year’s never fails to let me down. The clock strikes twelve, and what have you got? The same neuroses. The same regrets. The same flab in the same conspicuous places. The same crippling fear of failure that, instead of motivating you to succeed, sucks you into that self-loathing, procrastinating vortex of definitely-soon-but-not-until-I’ve-cleaned-the-toilet-napped-and-watched-Glee. Same same same. BLAH.
Ain’t no pyrotechnics display, Self-Improvement-Vow or wet smooch with Uncle Frank gonna change a thang. At least, no more than ANY OTHER DAY OF THE YEAR.
New Year’s resolutions are, as a rule, a risky business. The chances of success are (unlike me) extremely slim. Old habits die hard. You stand at the edge of a cliff as the clock ticks and tocks its way towards twelve. You resolve to fly in 2010. Reason tells you that, as soon as you jump, you’ll go KERSPLAT at the bottom of the ravine. But you’re full of boozified optimism. The Schnappsy stars are twinkling in your eyes. So when the clock strikes, you jump, because hey, maybe this year will be different. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll sprout wings.
And then you go KERSPLAT at the b0ttom of the ravine.
Why do we torture ourselves this way, year after year after year? Humans are screwy. This constantly amazes me.
Here’s the funny thing. I’m not anti-resolution because I’ve failed. I’m anti-resolution because I’ve succeeded. It’s true! I know, I’ve just said the chances of success are (unlike me) extremely slim. But I managed to pull it off. ONCE. When I was a foolish, maudlin twentysomething, I smoked. Cigarettes. Gobs and gobs and gobs of them. AND I LOVED IT. But I gave it up cold turkey on Dec. 31, 1999, at the age of 21. And I haven’t once looked back.
*pats herself on the back*
The fact I’ve actually kept one resolution is the perfect excuse never to make one again. One, because I don’t want to spoil my perfect record. Two, because given the fact the chances of success are (unlike me) extremely slim, I am more than 100% sure to fail in future. I’ve used up all my luck.
Where am I going with this, you ask. Good question.
Well. If I were to make a New Year’s resolution for 2010, which I am not going to do, for reasons explained above, it would be this: to stay in each yoga posture for five breaths. This is the ashtanga tradition, and although it sounds easy, I personally find it damn near impossible. Deceptively simple. I’m a rusher, you see. A hurrier. I know I should spend five full breaths in each pose. But theory and practice rarely get along. I tend to cheat a little, when I count. I take short breaths. And/or I move on the fifth breath, which means I’m really only in the pose for four breaths. Which means I’m really only giving it 80%.
Am I impatient? Yes. Am I results-driven? Yes. Am I lazy? Yes yes yes.
According to one of my yoga teachers, ashtangis are famous for their ability to do anything BUT hold a posture.
In the words of my wannabe-ghetto Boulder hairstylist, “true that.”
To sum. I’m not going to make a resolution for 2010. I’m not going to promise to fix my hurry-hurry-ashtangi problem the second the clock strikes twelve on New Year’s Eve. All I can do is try to try. And accept that, despite my best efforts at slowing down, at staying present, at counting to five over and over and over, I’ll likely to go KERSPLAT at the bottom of the yoga ravine – especially in home practice, when no one is counting breaths except me.
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