Resolution

I just finished working out at the club (a "sports center", actually, but it makes me feel more sophisticated to say "the club").

As I struggled to find a parking spot and then a free treadmill & weight machines at 7PM, I came to the realization I was right in the middle of the season inevitably following the holidays.

Resolution.

It's the young lady on the treadmill beside me. She cranks up the speed to a screaming fast pace but stands there with a wide stance, feet on the stationary rails, face down staring at the belt screwing up her courage, iPod blasting. Suddenly, she hops on, feet flying like a cute little jackrabbit with her long ears pinned back into a ponytail. Her sprint lasts a mere 5 seconds or so. Grabbing the console, landing on the rails, staring down once again at the speeding belt gasping for air, resting for a minute before the jackrabbit jumps again.

It's the older gentleman face down in the plank position, his personal trainer counting off the seconds. His pallid pudgy body shakes with the effort. From my perch on the weight machine, I stare at his dark brown comb-over admiring the masterwork involved in covering so much scalp with so little hair. The part starts so far down, further than I personally have ever seen. And I'm not talking far down on the side, but far down to the back. This is a maneuver I have not witness before. His dignity is preserved, however, by the silver Rolex proudly displayed on his wrist to match his cotton T-shirt, shorts and white tube socks. His beautiful watch ticking off the precious moments of his existence spent earning this timepiece, it seems.

It's my ex-neighbor plodding by in thick sweat pants and Ugg boots. And not the athletic kind of sweat pants, either, the cover up and stay warm and comfortable at the grocery store kind.

It's the conversation I had the last night I was in Las Vegas. I ended up in the sports book bar with my boss, big boss and colleague (while, mind you, my team enjoyed the fruits of the Strip).

For one blessed moment, my colleague opened a conversation not dealing with the work matter we had gathered to discuss.

"Did you all make New Year's Resolutions?"

My boss pounced on him, "Why do people have to wait until Jan. 1 to make a change? It's just stupid!"

Undeterred, my colleague directed the inquiry to me.

"I always find it more interesting to first review how last year's resolutions turned out."

My response was met with blank stares. More drinks were ordered from the waitress that never looked you in the eye; most likely because she was resigned to the fact male gazes were directed a bit lower anyway.

I took the break in the inquiry to recall the events surrounding my last year's resolutions. I was running mid December 2006 with my old group an overcast cold day, but not bitterly cold (weather wise, at least). We were cycling through subjects as usual, entertaining ourselves as the miles slipped by. I was asked for my NYR. I paused a second, and then blurted out the following.

"I resolve to push myself harder than ever before to the point of spectacular failure or extraordinary success."

Admittedly, it was an odd thing to say and it was met with understandable scorn, "I think this marathon training is finally getting to you."

I was as dumb founded as they were, but hid it. There it was. My resolution. I had no idea what it meant, but it was mine and somehow felt right.

"Mine is to have more fun."

I was roused from my reverie by this pronouncement from my colleague.

"Like how? What are you thinking of doing?"

"Well, I don't know"

"Seriously, you're going to have more fun. Like how?"

"Yeah, well, it's not like I have a kick-the-bucket list or something... I'm just going to take it all in, you know, relax a bit."

While I wish my colleague all the best, I can tell you his face is a billboard etched with deep lines spelling out a grim message for all the world to see: "Here is a man who has no fun."

I have traveled around the world with his gentleman and sat next to him for hours & days in planes, meetings and conference. I can not recall a single incident during which I heard him laugh or express mirth in any degree whatsoever.

That being said, I take no joy in my colleague's travails, quite the opposite actually.

You see, I was my colleague; the headaches on a Sunday afternoon when I tried to relax, "Wasn't there something I should be doing? Something I should be working on instead?" I was that girl; going to the gym, pushing myself so hard with no clue what I was doing. Torturing myself needlessly, stupidly. I was that man; feeling my man-boobs jiggling violently up and down as the plane made a rough landing on yet another runway on yet another international airport. Sacrificing my body to soulless pursuits.

But then, I got lucky. Blessed, actually.

I failed.

Spectacularly.

And I've never been happier.


(My neighbor passes by now as I sit here and pen this blog, sipping my bright pink recovery drink. It appears the only workout she has subjected herself to involves trotting around in those big old ugly ass Ugg's. I was never my neighbor.)