I tried to hit the ground running this year.
I had fantasies of blogging every day and washing my dishes as I dirty them and cleaning the litter box before Pumba stages another revolution and poops next to the box in protest of the gross factor that has overwhelmed his toilet (again.)
I was going to call my mom twice a week and floss twice a day and go to the gym to bobble frantically for at least 45 minutes a day or until I can't see my tummy poking out from under my gigantic boobs when I sit down in front of my computer.
I was also going to wake up early enough to eat a healthy breakfast, wash all of my potentially stinky parts and shave the hairy ones, carefully choose my clothes for the day, read the New York Times, check some funny Web sites for a pre-work chortle and brush Pumba's long hair so that it won't clump into orange dreadlocks every two days.
Then, with all the free time I would score with my efficient model for living, I would concentrate on quitting smoking and drinking only red wine as it is best for maintaining one's overall health.
Well. That didn't happen.
Instead, I still hit the snooze bar at least 5 times before I get out of bed, leaving me with time for a spit bath and a quick scrounge for a hair barette that was trained in the art of hair flattery. I open a can of wet food so that Pumba won't starve while he pickets the litter box with an MTA sign he scavenged in Midtown. I pause to consider a bowl of cereal for breakfast and remember that the milk in the back of the fridge expired in September. So I pop two tylenol for breakfast and read the paper on the way to the train.
And no, I haven't seen the inside of the gym this year, yet. I'm sure David, the too-damn-cheerful aerobic-boxing teacher thinks I've died, probably from tripping over my own wrist wraps, again. So I'll be buying some black pants with an elastic waist band instead. Black is always in fashion, right?