No, I haven't made any New Year's resolutions..........I gave up that nonsense years ago when I realized that I had probably never kept a single NY resolution made during my lifetime. I have a huge respect for promises I make to others but I realized that all my promises to myself to lose 30 pounds, clean out my closets, get things organized and do more good deeds, when uttered at the beginning of a new year, were self delusions, simply idle wishes for a series of miracles and not anything I was apt to put any real muscle into. I am properly ashamed of all the resolutions made and not kept and I have no intention to adding to the list much less repeating the same old chestnuts. Lying to others may be some sort of character flaw, perhaps even a crime, but lying to yourself is a sin of the worst kind as far as I am concerned.
Not that it isn't tempting, given the clean expanse of an unsullied year stretching outward, to try to transform yourself into Wonderwoman, but how realistic can that be given the sad history of the endlessly laughable saga of yourself as Rifka Shlumper up till now? Perhaps I will be Wonderwoman in my next incarnation, but for this one I must be content to simply be Rifka the Shlumper who falls down a lot, bumps into furniture and says, "excuse me", and cannot cook anything without dribbling half of it on the kitchen floor and down the front of her ample bosom.
Now, bring on that unsullied New Year and let's see how far it will get without being festooned with tomato sauce.
The New Yorker covers: February 10, 1968
5 hours ago