When the calendar flips from December to January, it’s time for my annual internal gut check.
Literally, I check my guts, to see how I compare to my old friends Mary and Lovesta.
So far, I can’t claim to match them, although I hope to grow more courageous as I age.
The pair’s fearlessness came to my attention more than a decade ago, while I drove them to a rehearsal of our women’s barbershop singing group. Mary, then in her 70s, beautifully sang the highest part, tenor, while Lovesta, in her 80s, was a strong bass. North of (cough, cough) 40, I was the baby of the group.
We had invigorating talks during those car rides, with unexpected twists and turns as we discussed life events from the last week, or, perhaps from 50 years ago, in their case.
The planet Mars had made the news with a story posing the question: Would ordinary citizens want to sign up for a one-way ticket (a trip that would take at least a year), help set up a colony and then stay on the Red Planet for the rest of their natural lives?
Take the chance you would die on the way? Leave your loved ones behind forever?
No way, I said.
But Mary and Lovesta were enchanted by the idea.
“Oh, absolutely,” Mary said.
“Get me a seat,” Lovesta gushed.
Both of them had generations of loved ones they cared deeply about and happy, industrious lives (witness their continued involvement in the challenging craft of barbershop singing, which requires vocal precision and tenacity).
Neither woman seemed depressed or delusional. What was the deal?
Eventually, I decided both had reached a stage in life I couldn’t yet understand. They had tasted most of what Earth had to offer and wouldn’t mind setting out on a scary adventure that might not end well, but would turn a page in a book they hadn’t already read.
That’s the way I want to be – someday, I thought.
Have you heard the commonly cited statistic that only about 8 percent of those who still make New Year’s resolutions end up keeping them? Count me in the 92 percent.
It turns out I fit in well with my community. Among 182 of the larger cities around the country, St. Louis supposedly ranks 100th in its residents’ ability to keep resolutions. (San Diego, Calif., is first, and Gulfport, Miss., last.)
This is according to WalletHub, a five-year-old personal finance website that does research and surveys and then tries to entice media to publish the resulting press releases (Fattest states? Best baseball cities? Best places to celebrate Halloween?)
Usually, I won’t bite, but they timed their piece on New Year’s resolutions perfectly to make me look. WalletHub says it examined 52 criteria to assess a city’s conduciveness to self-improvement, including access to gyms, per capita income and employment outlook. I get why proximity to a gym might help in keeping a promise to exercise, but not why income figures into the equation.
Whatever, they hit me square on the nose with this statistic: St. Louis ranks 177th out of 182 in residents’ ability to correct a bad habit. I’m not sure I’ve ever replaced any bad habit with a good one, so I might have personally yanked St. Louis to the bottom of this category.
Given my dismal track record, it seemed safer this year to make a list of things I won’t do in 2018, rather than the other way around.
■ For example, I promise not to get a tattoo. I kind of see the charm, but I oppose pain, just on principle. I’ve lapsed a few times on this decision (three childbirths), but mostly, if it hurts, I’m not doing it.
■ I’m not going to eat squirrel, frog legs, snails or caviar in 2018. I’ve never tasted any of these things, and I believe I can live with the continued deprivation. (Seriously, who could put something that looks like caviar in his or her mouth? Calling it what it really is – super-pricy salt-cured fish eggs – does not build its resume.)
I have tasted cantaloupe and rye bread, so I have no trouble promising not to eat those foods in the next year. However, in an exception to my resolution rules, I’ll make one affirmative pledge – to eat at least two watermelons in 2018.
■ I resolve not to apply for the TV show Survivor. I started watching this reality show recently to connect with my daughter and daughter-in-law, who are fans. I didn’t expect to get hooked, but now I’m binge-watching old seasons on Hulu.
It’s fascinating to see how willing people are to deceive and back-stab when they’ve given themselves permission and the motivator is greed (you get $1 million if you’re the Sole Survivor).
I don’t really want to get better at those types of behavior, and I’m as opposed to starvation as I am to pain. No Survivor for me.
■ I think I can also promise not to book a trip to Mars in 2018. Unless, that is, I could get the seat next to Mary on the shuttle out. In that circumstance, I just might be able to summon up the courage. I’m getting older every day.
Lovesta died in 2008, so I can’t share the experience with her. But I’ll bet a ripe, juicy watermelon she was able to swing a layover on Mars on her way up.
