“You Say Tomato, I Say Gelato” By Sugar Mama
By Cynthia Jenkins on January 27, 2012 2:26 PM | Comments (1)
When it comes to New Year’s resolutions, your loss is my gain. This is assuming you have “Lose that holiday ten!” on your list which, if you’re anything like everybody, you do. Oh, I know … all those cookies and pies, the kids were home from school, and let’s not forget that wacky metabolism of yours … all to blame. That’s what you’re telling yourselves, at least, while researching class times at YogaWorks online, or driving to the Nike store to buy new running shoes, or rummaging through your purses for that Weight Watcher’s points calculator. And then again for a pen to log that half a carrot that you just ate into your journal.
Yup, in my opinion, ‘tis the season to be coined “The most wonderful time of the year.” It’s that renewed sense of purpose around town—that cultish commitment to living healthfully—that deck my halls with boughs of holly. Because while you’re all fashioning yourselves into some yogic pretzel chanting “om,” I will actually be at Fashion Island, eating a pretzel, saying “yum.”
Alone.
I’m not suggesting that sipping three meals a day through a juicer isn’t tempting, or that Lycra doesn’t take years off my rear, too—I’m merely reveling in the quiet joy I experience every year, nestled in some cherry-red booth at Ruby’s, wrapped lovingly around a French fry … just me and my elastic waistband.
It isn’t as though I’ve never resolved to lose weight in the New Year like the rest of you. Or that I, myself, haven’t signed up for an annual gym membership—for the price of a small mortgage, with a small crowd—never to be used beyond January 17th. I simply see an opportunity to stand out this year, to draw a line in the sand that says, “Hey, there’s more to Q1 than downward dogs and lettuce leaves.” In fact, you know what my yoga instructor told me during one of the three classes I did make last January?
“We are what we think. Not what we eat.”
Buddha said that, my friends. And look how chubby and happy he was. Is.
Whatever.
But don’t let me discourage you from your goals, or sabotage that bikini bod you promised yourself and the rest of Main Beach by spring. Besides, New Year’s resolutions are about you, not me. So don’t give a second thought to my daily, frothy, whole-milk latte cradled in one hand, while my other nurses a behemoth-sized scone; nor one cotton-pickin’ minute longing to be warm in bed, like me, at seven in the morning while, instead, you’re at some beach boot camp accumulating more sand in your shoes than burned calories on your iPhone. Nay, this is my time to salute you for all your “holidays-never-happened” mania.
So I raise my latte and say, thanks … for reminding me that resolve knows no calendar. Because no matter what time of year it is, my cup of cellulite runneth over, 24/7, 365 days a year.
