<< Back 12/25/02 Resolving to take it easy on myself in 2003 By Jay Hardwig Let’s see: as I write this it’s Dec. 20, but as you read it, it’s no earlier than Dec. 26. Which puts me in the awkward position of hoping you had a Merry Christmas that you haven’t even had yet. I also feel compelled to report that mine was nice. It’s probably a true statement, but for all I know, Christmas at Casa Smardwig will involve several broken bones, a box of suspect Marzipan, and a freak confectionary fire that leaves me with second-degree burns over half of my body. A grim scenario, you have to admit. Alternately, this Christmas may become known as The Night Dad Had One Too Many or The Night Mama’s Appendicitis Struck and Left Her Face Down in the Buche de Noel. These things happen. But I doubt they’ll happen to us. I’m predicting good cheer all around. Hope you have/had a Merry Christmas too. Of course, we can all speculate about New Year’s Eve, which has not happened either as I write or as you read this, unless you’re seriously lax about picking up your copy of the Smoky Mountain News. (In which case: shame on you.) (Oh come on: not really. Read it at your leisure. I never meant to hurt you.) This year, I’m wondering how close Eli will make it to midnight, how to explain “Auld Lang Syne,” and whether this year I’ll finally convince my friends that it can be fun to dance to jazz. Oh, and what’s for dinner? I’m always wondering what’s for dinner. I wonder, too, what my New Year’s Resolutions will be. In keeping with my spirit of general indulgence, I suspect that they will be a bit soft. I have long advocated that New Year’s Resolutions be permissive rather than punitive. We are hard-workin’ folks, aren’t we? We hardly need another lash at our backs. No, what we need is a little care and comfort. And maybe one more slice of pie. I never resolve to change my oil, clean up my kitchen, or lose weight, no matter how much I need to do those things. I don’t resolve to do my taxes, grow a vegetable garden, or visit nursing homes more often. I might resolve to trim my fingernails — it’s easy enough, and can be done while watching football — but rarely do I get more demanding than that. I have resolved, however, to eat more French Toast. That was ’00, as I recall, and it was a very good year, with lots of syrup and strawberries and vanilla yogurt. I ate French Toast in restaurants, in my home, in other people’s homes. I ate it in the morning and the evenings. I ate it in a box, with a fox, in the rain, on a train. By year’s end I had eaten more French Toast than I ever had in my life. I still giggle at the thought. In ’01, I resolved to take better care of my feet. Mostly that involved taking a hot bath now and then and finding ways to spend more time in slippers. Another resounding success: the bond between my feet and I only grew, and we maintain a close friendship to this day. I am in slippers at this very moment. Last year, I resolved not to resolve anything at all. At the time, I felt my life had enough resolution and constraint, and not enough improvisation and whimsy. It worked wonders: within months I was leading a less structured, more carefree life. Great things can happen when you quit your job. I don’t know what I’ll choose this year, but it might have something to do with naps. I do like a nap. And Eli? What will Eli’s resolutions be? If last year is any indication, he will resolve to watch more television, eat more cheese crackers, and see more bulldozers. Since TV and cheese crackers are strictly rationed at Casa Smardwig — not even a New Year’s Resolution can change the Iron Fist of Law — we may start spending considerably more Saturdays at construction sites. Like many a father of a young boy, I have recently learned to distinguish backhoes from graders from front-end loaders, and I look forward to using that knowledge in context. (Everyone in the room who knows what Blaw-Knox is, raise your hand. How old’s your boy?) I suspect that Eli will resolve to learn to fly an airplane as well. You cannot imagine his disappointment when, on our recent trip to Florida, I admitted that I did not know how to fly a plane. I sat helpless in my seat as I watched my stature shrink to half its former size in less than 10 seconds. In an effort to stop the bleeding, as it were, I told him that, other than Uncle Mark the Airline Pilot, no one he knew could fly a plane. This only dismayed him more. I do believe I saw the slightest bit of disgust creep into his eyes, and a new category began to form in his mind: Useless Adults Who Can’t Fly Planes. (It’s a large category. I’m in good company.) If I were in a sappier mood, I would spend my last few paragraphs talking about resolutions that were quieter, more subtle, more genuine. I might talk about reading more to my boy, or singing more songs, or just being open to the magic he brings. I might talk about the resolve he carries every day — to learn, to grow, to do things by himself — and how we might benefit from absorbing a bit of that resolve. I might wish a few things for our world as a whole: to be more kind and more caring, to do for others, to choose peace over war. But I’m not in that mood today: you’ll have to wait ’til next year. Instead, I’ll leave you with a bit of timeless Hardwig wisdom, a little New Year’s nugget of my own that I call Hardwig’s Laws of Champagne. Hardwig’s First Law of Champagne is this: If you pay more than five bucks for a bottle, you’ve been had. Hardwig’s Second Law of Champagne reads: Quit after half a cup or you’ll get a helluva headache. (Some people have suggested a link between Hardwig’s First and Second Laws of Champagne, but for the life of me I can’t see it.) This is my gift to you. Happy New Year’s, y’all. (Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)