Resolutions: a eulogy
PASSED AWAY peacefully on the afternoon of January 1, 2019, at the age of 36ish hours, after a brief battle with lethargy and indifference. My New Year’s resolutions are survived by my inexplicable inability to find time to read every night, despite devoting numerous 40-minute chunks of each day to Twitter; my total unwillingness to cook a giant batch of vegan coconut curry every Sunday night in a slow cooker that I have yet to purchase and then freeze the leftover portions in eco-friendly glass Tupperware so I have lunches for the week; and my preference for creeping local personal trainers named Kaylee with sun-dappled 12-pack abs on Instagram rather than actually contacting them to inquire about rates.
Though my resolutions left this world far too soon, their lives were fierce, full of purpose and truly inspiring, briefly transforming me into someone who genuinely intended to start getting up an hour earlier every morning and become one of those women who meditates in a bay window laden with bohemian floor cushions before leaving for work. My resolutions had a zest for life that was undeniably contagious, but only because I was pleasantly drunk at Jess and Jason’s annual year-end party and once again conflated vodka and optimism.
Their tragically short time on this earth will surely have a lasting impact, causing me to conduct a panicstricken inventory of my life again next December and solemnly vow that yes, this will be the year I will learn Spanish, banjo and Spanish banjo, and that I will do all of these instead of watching the fourth season of Friends while wrapped in six fleece blankets.
Cremation services will be held on Sunday evening. Friends and family are invited to come over at 6 p.m. to watch me burn the pristine, new pineapple notebook I bought last week to write out and track the progress of my resolutions.
In lieu of flowers, I will gratefully receive donations to my GoFundMe page, which I’ve set up to compensate for my failure to finally open an RRSP despite seven consecutive Decembers of pledging to do so.
“Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.”
— Sophie Kohn