By Lin Brehmer

A Sandy from Morton Grove once asked,
What is the best (or worst) new year’s resolution you ever made?

One should always wait at least a week before implementing new year’s resolutions because by that time, the impulse will have passed and we can all continue with our lives unencumbered by the sort of promises so ridiculous that we can only make them to ourselves.

The saddest part of new year’s resolutions is how modest they look on paper.

Work out. Lose weight.

How about drink less?

I asked around for inspiration.

One account executive has started a liquid diet without alcohol. In my experience, a liquid diet is alcohol. Remember that first step off the wagon is a doozy.

One co-worker resolved to save money and bought a 200 dollar purse at a New Year’s Day sale.

Who really understands what they are capable of?

What was that line from an old TV drama?

“Become more cynical and self-absorbed.”

Tried that last year. My personal favorite. I’m gonna get in shape.

I’m gonna find my combination lock until I realize that even though the combination corresponds in my mind to the uniform numbers of Chicago sport immortals, I can no longer remember if its Devin Hester right, Harold Baines left, and then Bob Love right or maybe it was Jordan right, Nagurski left, Santo right and then I realize those are the same combinations and they’re both wrong.

Do you know what’s great about returning to the YMCA after a long absence? No, I’m not talking about the 25 dollar penalty payments for every month your credit card with the new expiration date refused payment. I’m talking about the cast of characters. The young people behind the front desk so new they have no idea how completely you have failed in every single attempt to re-dedicate yourself to exercise.

But the exercise room, that elliptical Stairmaster stationary bicycle treadmill paradise, is filled with the same people. The serial exercisers parched and stretched out like greyhounds. The chubby, balding greys baby-stepping those 15 minute miles. The spandex queens whose outfits really looked good the century they were in college. A motley assortment. Ex-jocks, non-jocks, women with fear and desperation in their eyes. And there is always one person in the room whose bearing and muscle tone and shape has an allure that is both superficial and irresistible so that when she bends and stretches with an elasticity that transports you to a very special circus of the mind, you slip off the back of the spinning treadmill and tumble clumsily to the floor where you consider whether you should gracefully begin doing sit-ups before somebody’s grandfather helps you up and says, “ya might wanna turn down your treadmill,” you had it set at 3.2 miles an hour.


I resolve to start drinking all the good wine in my basement before my well-meaning Dr. Dan realizes that I should probably skip the wine drinking all together.

I resolve that I will get at least five hours of sleep a night.

I resolve that I will no longer plan my Octobers around the improbability of a Cubs championship.

I might as well resolve to build a life size model of the Trump Tower out of rigatoni.

None of our resolutions has a doughnuts chance in the DJ lounge. Except the one where we drink more wine.

Never talk about what you’ll do when it only matters what you’ve done.

Resolutions are an amusement of the damned. And I’ll damn them before they damn me.

Jimi Hendrix had the best resolution I’ve ever heard.

Television host Dick Cavett asked Hendrix, “Do you consider yourself a disciplined guy? Do you get up every day and work?”

To which Jimi Hendrix replied, “I try to get up every day.”

There it is. My resolution for the year.

“I try to get up every day.”


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