Thursday, January 8, 2009

There is a Mexican siren who summons me sometimes, pressing me to consume unspeakably delicious burritos, and tonight I found her secret music too compelling to resist. Of course, I had to hop in my car, tear down the highway, and peel off four exits later in order to even heed the call, but consider me allured and, a hearty pound of food later, absolutely satisfied.

I needed to have dinner, on one hand, but on the other hand I also set into motion a healthier lifestyle a few weeks ago, complete with reasonable bedtimes, exercise, even a new organic multivitamin that’s been energizing. Call them resolutions, if you must, though I’ve grown to despise New Year’s resolutions. They’re destined to fizzle, you know, and why wouldn’t they? How could lists predicated on a completely arbitrary unit of time possibly fail? It’s no wonder most only have a shelf-life of a month, and woe be to January for shouldering this burden. I mean, look at October. The only resolution there is to power down shitloads of candy.

You could call it a diet, I suppose. For me, though, a good portion of the word evokes images of mortality or, even worse, the ancient art of treating cloth to specified colors. Handicrafts are utterly terrifying to me. Instead of “diet,” I’m going to call it a correction. All I know is, somewhere in between the cajun-rubbed bleu cheese burger and the fried pickles and the holiday treats and the Big Block, something broke and I started feeling terrible. Pants still fit, fortunately, but it’s time for action, the likes of which will tip the scale without necessarily breaking it.