Why do we make them?
I could hear the music mounting. You know the type; the tune from old Western films just before a thrilling, yet predictable shoot off in which the hero always escapes unscathed. It was getting louder, reaching a crescendo, complete with the rustle of tumbleweed in the background. I had my gun in my holster, my hands at the ready. I was as set as I’d ever be. My opponent stood there resolutely; staunch and determined. I could feel a drumming beat inside me. You could cut the pie with a knife. Sorry, did I say pie? I meant tension. Oops.
Okay let me tell you the truth before my nose starts growing. The enemy staring fixedly at me, with what I maintain to be quite frankly an audaciously provoking gaze, was in fact a huge, scrumptious slab of cherry pie. The gun in my holster was actually a desert spoon and a red-spotted tissue left over from Christmas. The rustle was more of a rumble resounding from the depths of my tummy and the drumming beat was the monster that I’m sure lives inside it, pounding to get out. The music coincidentally came from the television at which my father was idly pointing the remote and switching channels every other minute. I may have been standing in a kitchen rather than in the middle of a desert, but this is how I view my own personal battle with the temptress that is dessert.
…petits-filous comes in cute little containers. Onken comes in a tub as stout as the name implies.
Needless to say, I did win this particular battle in the sense that I vanquished that piece of pie. By the time I was done with it, the only remnants to be found were a few stray crumbs. Unlike the heroes in the Westerns however, I did not leave unscathed but rather blemished by the few extra pounds that the weighing scales would display the next day.
Over Christmas, my petite, bite-size sibling was sat opposite me eating a slice of cheesecake. At regular intervals my finger would swoop down into the creamy depths, hawk-like, and then into my mouth. A friend of mine was observing the scene with an amused expression on his face and then proceeded to refer to my teeny, tiny twin as a little pot of Petits-Filous. In comparison, I was christened Onken. For those of you that aren’t familiar with yogurt terminology, petits-filous comes in cute little containers. Onken comes in a tub as stout as the name implies.
…I feel guilty when my resolutions don’t seem to stick (obviously through no fault of my own).
We all make New Year’s resolutions and more often than not, they are prompted by a comment, an event or some serious self-reflection. Not the type to psychoanalyse myself, my decision to slash the sugar from my diet stemmed from the comment made by this friend. I quite honestly don’t have an ounce of will power, yet every year without fail I make myself a list, which surprise, surprise, I never stick to. So why is it that we torture ourselves with the disappointment of broken promises? I attribute my need for regulations and self-imposed boundaries as a way to enforce some order. At the end of the day it’s all about being in control, even if it is over yourself. I know that I am bound to break them, yet I feel guilty when my resolutions don’t seem to stick (obviously through no fault of my own).
The New Year is the perfect time to start afresh, out with the old and in with the new as they say. Whether it is to improve yourself intellectually, physically or experiment with something completely new (keep your dirty thoughts to yourself please), they give us a chance to foresee change and excitement, to break the monotony of the previous year, to hope for something better and to ultimately embrace the one life we are given. I may have been defeated by deserts, but I have a few more that are still going strong. If and when they fall to tatters is a different matter. There’s a familiar saying: rules are made to be broken. And at the end of the day, isn’t it the thought that counts?