It's all gone pear-shaped

I think it�s time to talk again about resolutions. Basically, it�s time to talk about how much I detest them and don�t like to make them because when I then turn around and break them two weeks into January, I only feel like a big ol� flake.

The main one is so clich� I hesitate to mention it here: losing some of my considerable body weight. I have had no children or extended illnesses or disabilities so I really have no excuse other than my love of hedonism and gluttony and my goal of peacefully passing away due to an overdose of a b�chamel Gruyere sauce.

My uncle impressed upon me at an early age the importance of taking your time in life and enjoying the little things. We took trips to Union Station, the planetarium and Casa Loma to broaden my young horizons, we had �nibbles� at 5:00 p.m., followed by a full dinner at 8:00 and not one birthday went by without my being taken to an adult restaurant and having something totally foreign ordered for me. Unlike my sister, I was more than willing to sample octopus, lamb with mint sauce, oysters on the half shell and caviar. I aped his behaviors and learned to place my (linen) napkin with a flourish, to use a myriad of utensils properly and in the correct order and later, to tip accordingly. To this day I tip accordingly, not willy-nilly. My Mom suspects I have become a snob, but I think you have to actually be wealthy for that name to stick. When you�re ghetto poor, it�s more like �high falutin�.

Ultimately, I feel I was raised in my upper-middle income family to savour the finer things in life, however few and far between they made themselves available. And I do. Even if the finer things in life (to me) consist of a bubble tea with perfectly al dente pearls, good quality semi precious gemstones and findings and half a day with my friend Dale who gives the best OPI mani/pedi in this hemisphere.

All this appreciation has, I fear, resulted in me growing much like the Grinch�s heart. Three sizes is much too much when fitting into pants is involved, so the only alternative I can see is the actual bringing into service of my elliptical machine. I don�t look forward to it, as I�m told I should. I don�t experience those feelings of euphoria as the adrenaline kicks in and I don�t enjoy the burning sensation over my body as I heat up to much the same temperature as the surface of the sun. Possibly, POSSIBLY, I could learn to tolerate it if The Boy would hook up the television and the dvd machine so I could watch Gilmore girls or Buffy and distract myself, but that�s probably a long shot.

Still, I may need to take some sort of action; listening to my corduroys go zip-zop-zip-zop-zip-zop as I headed down the hall to my office this morning was most disconcerting indeed.

Posted at 3:35 p.m.