This week it dawned on me. It’s Christmastime. Again.
Not that I’m a Grinch. My heart isn’t three sizes too small. Doesn’t it seem as though July was only a few days ago?
But I’m a woman of tradition. On this, the holidays and I agree.
I can stand behind the gratuitous drinking and the stacks of baked goods. I can work a Christmas party with the best of ‘em. Each year, I even manage to get my act together enough to mail out Christmas cards.
And I recently discovered how much I enjoy my co-worker’s rendition of the Bob and Doug McKenzie classic “12 Days of Christmas.”
Which leaves me with my penultimate holiday tradition — making a New Year’s resolution.
Now, I know what most of you are thinking: “But McMackin, how can you possibly be any more wonderful?”
Well listen up friends — no one is perfect. You want proof? Check out my in-office swear jar. And, as the type of gal who sets herself up with a swear jar, I am very aware of my imperfections. Which makes the idea of a fresh start incredibly appealing.
Each year, my resolutions read as followed: Be nice, ski more, swear less, ride more, work less.
Which leads to my final holiday tradition: Failing to achieve any of my resolutions.
Despite my excitement to improve, I don’t put a lot of stock in resolutions. While I wholeheartedly outline short- and long-term goals, which I monitor on a six-month basis, I don’t beat myself up over a missed trip to the ski hill or an extra-long day at work. Or when I say a word that rhymes with “duck.”
