On January 1st, the media begin their self-improvement propaganda. They bombard us with suggestions on how to get healthy; how to have the life we deserve and how to organize and improve our lives.
Dr. Oz will trot out icky stuff that hangs around our inactive arteries and innards accompanied by dire warnings about what will happen to us if we don’t rid ourselves of this yuck. Totally grossed out, I proceed to take note of my exterior self.
Science has yet to invent equipment sufficient to lift my eyelids. I have not located a Dr. that is willing to part with enough collagen to fill out my lips. My butt prefers its current location of occupying space adjacent to my knees.
My closet looks like an unclaimed unit on storage wars. You know, the one that no one will bid on. Our cat refuses to hide there even in a thunderstorm. On January 1st, am I supposed to reach an epiphany that will cause me to organize the contents?
Fashion magazines remind me it is time to update my style. My non-compliant body refuses to smoosh itself into jeggings and riding boots. The freakishly spikey hairdo for “women of a certain age” is a tad too perky.
Letting go of past grudges is a recurrent suggestion. My grudges are longstanding and well deserved. Deepak Chopra does not know the people with whom I have issues. I require more powerful mantras than he offers to deal with the loonies I encounter.
The calendar turning another page is not reason enough to motivate me to change my wicked ways. We need a month to do nothing. Why not wait until spring to start harping on self-improvement?
On the positive side, I did uncover a fabulous suggestion to eliminate stress and guilt. All of the January improvement magazines are residing in the recycle bin.