My bold New Year’s resolutions – late, as usual | Whale

I was born late — exactly three weeks — despite my mother’s earnest efforts to speed the process along with various over-the-counter elixirs.

I don’t rightly recall exactly what I was thinking back then, of course, but if a guess had to be made, I’d say it probably had something to do with what I was hearing from other babies-to-be via www.interwomb.com. That is, a lot of excited cooing and burbling and babbling about being ready “to go to the light.”

I wasn’t buying it. Until the day came when I, too, was “pushed naked into this assignment.”

As my friends and family know too well, I’ve never shed this tardy habit. I am still late to just about everything.

And the other day it hit me — I was late again. There I was, weeks into the New Year, and I’d yet to make a single resolution. The clock is running, best get cracking.

So, here they are, in no particular order, my most heartfelt resolutions for 2022.

For starters, I resolve to overcome my tardy habit by arriving 72 hours early for all appointments, get-togethers and interviews. Now, I recognize that showing up on someone’s doorstep three days ahead of time and refusing to go away before the agreed-upon day and hour arrives could lead to some awkward situations. But in the interest of my future, super-de-duper punctuality, I’m sure the risk of being forcibly removed will be worth the trouble.

Next, I resolve to lower the height of my forehead, which photos reveal has shot upward like Honest Abe’s stovepipe hat in step with the retreating tide of my hairline. See, I do not share the “got-a-lemon-make-lemonade” mindset that the great Seattle band, Uncle Bonsai, celebrated in the 1980s in their paean to male-pattern baldness: “You’re not losing hair, you’re gaining face!”

Next, I resolve to get to the bottom of the mystery that has vexed me for years. That is, when people report having seen ghosts, why do the spirits they describe so often manifest in clothes? And if they are clad, where did the dearly departed acquire their spectral duds? Could there be a garment district in the Great Beyond? Puzzling this out has cost me too much sleep over the years, and I need closure.

Moving on, I resolve to keep at least 75 feet away from my friends at gatherings, as they have implored me to do. I’ve never known how to read that. I mean, wouldn’t that take me out of just about any room altogether? Wouldn’t it be extremely difficult for them to hear me from the street? Doesn’t make sense, but I’ll do it for my pals.

Up next, gotta get on that weird dude for the sake of the entire household to remove the chunk of Limburger cheese — my dad called it “feet cheese” for obvious reasons — from whatever hidey-hole we all know he stowed it in during his visit three weeks ago.

And for my final resolution, I hereby resolve I will find a method for manufacturing reverse elevator shoes for the chronologically, but unhappily, tall. I’m sure there’s a killing to be made in that hitherto untapped demographic.

So, what do you think? Did I set my sights too low? I’d like to hear what you think.

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Robert Whale can be reached at rwhale@soundpublishing.com.