Dear Diary,

I know. I know. You only hear from me at the beginning of each year when I bitch about the stumbling blocks in my personal life that I'm determined to overcome in the new year. I'm not the only person having this conversation with their diary, by the way: there are those who, as we speak, are promising to spend less time on Facebook, learn a useless skill such as dredging a salt lake, and cut back on the extra-marital affairs and, ahem, cougar hook-ups.

This year, I'm doing something different. I will rise above self-loathing; for example, for getting carried away with all that goddamn ham this past Christmas, and the temptation to pledge to you that swine will never again pass these lips. We both know that's a cheque my ass can't cash anytime soon. This year, the only resolution I have is to have no resolutions. Yes, that's right. I've sensed you bad-mouthing me each year to your fellow diary cronies: Such a spineless complainer. But I'm not mad with you; I bad-mouth me all the time. Sometimes, when I look back at the entries I've made in your pristine pages, I get all embarrassed. All that whining. Seriously, if I'd remained at the weight I was at when I first began promising to lose pounds, I actually wouldn't have anything to complain about today. But what's done is done. (And for the record, I absolutely don't have room in my apartment for a Stairmaster. And, excuse me, the reason I don't use those five-pound weights that I have stashed behind my TV is that when my fingers get slippery and they drop unceremoniously from my grasp, they break a ceramic tile or two. And everybody knows that there are few things as unsightly as a chipped ceramic tile. So, forget you, Diary. And I mean that in the original Cee Lo way.)

But it's a new year. I'm determined not to get as batsh-t angry at the slightest provocation, so pardon me, dear Diary, for that little fit of pique a moment ago. I am getting better. : If you could write back I know you'd be all ROTFL. But, as I said before, I'm not making pledges that fizzle by the second week of January. Which, for instance, is why I told my female neighbours no when they invited me to go jogging with them, at five in the morning, the day after New Year's. "God bless," I told them when they broached the subject while we were stuffing our faces at the annual pre-New Year's Eve dinner. "Beware thieves and rapists."

They no doubt thought I was being cynical. But they didn't have a plan for a consistent programme of exercise. Why run one day out of the entire year? At least that's how I see it.

Still, this is my year to live better. Yes, this is a leap year. And yes, leap years are known for being, shall we say, tough on single women. (That's why they make provisions for us to do the proposing in a leap year.) I'm nevertheless rising above that negativity. I'm not even going to bleat about how many pounds I'm going to lose. Suffice it to say: I'm gonna go Jennifer Hudson on your ass, Diary. When I'm down to my fighting weight, you just...okay, you just watch your back. (In case you can't see me, I'm gritting my teeth and shaking a rebellious fist in the air.)

And, speaking of fists...

So I think we can agree that the real big man is Don Anderson. Even the penny section apologists, I think, would agree. Don Anderson is the man. And in the future, let's hope we can refrain from listening to the glory hounds who apparently canvass themselves. They'll lead us astray and leave us tits up in a ditch every single time.

The good thing, however, is that we don't have to hear from them until another five years' time. If at all. OMG, Diary. Five years!!! Do you know how old I'll be in five years? No, seriously, do you? I'll be old, Diary. Old! I know, I know. I'm one of those who said 50 is the new 30. But I really meant 50 is the new 30 for other people. I didn't see myself getting there. But, dear sweet baby Jesus, by the next election, I would have crossed that bridge. Yikes, that ravine. What will my life be like then? Will I still be fighting the good weight fight? Will my bank account still be anaemic? Will I still be using Valley Girl expressions like OMG, which I really shouldn't be using now?

This is why I don't write to you too often, Diary. I can feel the need for alcohol kicking in.

Does one determine one's future or is it pre-determined by some unknown power? I guess what I'm wondering, dear Diary, is whether it even makes sense contemplating my failures and shortcomings? Especially if I'll end up right back here next January. And who determines that setbacks are bad, anyway?

Certainly not Barbara Terry, the inspirational subject of a recent New York Times article, 'At 52, Still Working the Streets'. Terry - a Bronx prostitute for 30 years, with 100-plus arrests to her name and no pimp to look out for her - raised four children, two of whom she put through college, while on the stroll. She started hooking at 21, after her husband left her with two young children. She didn't carry a blade; she used her fists when she was threatened by johns. She's finally going to retire this year and live in the house she's just bought. I imagine she's had a lot of New Year's resolutions in her lifetime. The moral of her story: Life can kick you around for a long time. But when it's your time, it's your time.

I don't know if it's my time. But I can allow myself a little hope, which, as they say, springs eternal. That's what one does. One makes it through the old year, somewhat unscathed, and one closes that chapter and hopes for the best a new year brings. You know that prayer: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and courage to change the things I can. That's all I can do, dear Diary. That's all I can do.

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments

  0 comments