Over the years I’ve narrowed my New Year’s resolutions to one. It’s a no fail resolution disguised as a paradox. Each year I resolve to lose my resolve before the end of January. Here it is, barely mid month and I’ve already succeeded in keeping my New Year’s resolution to not keep my resolution!

For most of the year I watch what I eat, count calories and ration treats; except over the holidays. It’s the time of year when everybody offers up their best culinary efforts and I’m not about to pass up the goodies. Come the first of the year, I can go back to my healthful rainbow of fresh vegetables and fruit, fiberific grains and colorless fish and meat, knowing that I will drop any extra pounds I may be carrying around on my backside – my own personal Christmas gift to myself.

Last weekend, I de-frocked the house of all the Yuletide bling, packed it in boxes, dusted, vacuumed and moved furniture back to it’s rightful space. It took the entire day and all of my energy. Hubby wisely suggested we go out to eat.

Normally, I’m quite diligent about monitoring his heart healthy diet and adhering to it myself, which means choosing restaurants that offer grilled chicken or fish. But it happened to be All-You-Can-Eat Shrimp night at the local pub and I was feeling self indulgent.

Two plates of breaded and deep fried shrimp, with french fries and full-fat mayonnaise laden coleslaw, and two beers later, I’d officially broken the heart smart rules. May as well top it off with an ice cream sandwich from the C-store on the way home. From there, it’s been like a snowballing rolling down hill – fast.

I made the mistake of baking banana bread one evening. Well, I couldn’t just throw those over-ripe bananas away. I’ve eaten two pieces of it every day since. I’m pretty sure this doesn’t count toward my fruit servings.

A few days ago we were running errands in town, 45 miles from home. We decided to stop for a bite to eat. It was your typical greasy spoon diner with a cook who thinks chicken and fish filets only come pre-breaded, frozen in boxes. I figured if I was going to cheat, I may as well cheat big.

Red meat is a fading memory in our home. I’ve probably had a total of four hamburgers in the last year. When I do cook burgers, I buy the 98% fat free ground chuck and cook it on the grill. The fat free mayo offers little in the way of helping those dried out hockey pucks slide down my throat, and even less in the way of taste.

So, sitting in the diner, faced with no healthy options, I went for the gusto. I ordered the Blue Burger and Fries. The patty was 1/3 pound of greasy heaven on a bun, smothered in (I swear) a full pound of blue and gorgonzola cheese with crumbled bacon thrown in for good measure.

Yesterday I attended a baby shower. No self respecting shower would be complete without a pot-luck, fat-fare spread. I ate chicken salad with string potato chips mixed in and then sprinkled on top, cupcakes piled high with frosting and apples in caramel dip.

Today is a brand new day, with no mistakes in it . . . yet.

Why does it have to be so darn easy to fall of the healthy eating wagon and, (like everything else the older I get) that much harder to climb back on? Why does a five pound box of chocolates turn to fifteen pounds on my butt? I don’t get the math.

And when I die, if I make it to heaven, will there be 24/7 buffets laden withall the delicious foods I love, like on a Carnival Cruise Ship?

Made any resolutions yet for 2009? Is it just me, or does the promise of reward seem less worth the effort of consequential improvement the older we get?

Should I resolve to lose weight and get in shape? I’ve been on that roller coaster for the last ten years; it’s hardly fodder for New Year resolutions. Last year I enrolled in a fitness class called Ramping. It’s supposed to be the kinder, gentler version of step aerobics. I used to be coordinated. I used to have pretty good balance. I used to be able to follow a repeating pattern of steps and add the arm movements in sequence. I used to teach this stuff! But then, I used to know my left from my right.

Walking is good. I’m pretty sure I can still put one foot in front of the other. I’m told if I do it often enough I can stay fit and maintain my weight. If it gets too boring, I’ll try chewing gum at the same time.

I could strive to get organized, but every night that I go to bed and have to switch off the light reassures me that I am. If my belly is full, the furnace is still heating, the cable signal is being received, the internet is streaming, the dial-tone is buzzing, the cell phone is activated and the toilet is still flushing, I’m organized, darn-it. Those things are evidence that I continue to get up, get dressed, feed myself, work for money, buy food and clothing and remember to pay my bills on time. Anything beyond that is either a sign of obsessive compulsive disorder – or wealth.

The day that my linen closet boasts symmetrically folded and stacked towels with room to spare, or I can open the door of my medicine cabinet without a dozen bottles tumbling out, will be the day I’m making enough money to hire a full-time housekeeper. When I stop sending belated birthday cards, I’ll have added a personal assistant. And when I’m no longer searching frantically for my car keys in the hope of getting where I’m going on time, I’ll be sitting in the back seat of my chauffeured Jag.

Maybe I should find a new job or ask for a raise. I don’t think so. A better resolution this year might be learning how to stretch a dollar. Besides, if I spend less at the grocery store I’ll finally be able to lose those stubborn ten pounds.

Remember the days when we were all back in school? Remember easy credits? The classes you took because there wasn’t much effort required to earn the grade? When it comes to life I figure I’ve earned most of the hard credits; I’m taking it easy from here on out.

This year I plan to take more naps when it’s cold and gray outside. I will sit in my garden when the sun shines; everything and (everybody else) wait.

I will stop spending my money buying things I think will make me happy and start spending my time doing things I know I enjoy.

I will laugh more and (hopefully) cry less, but if I do feel like crying I will sob wholeheartedly and without shame.

I will say no without guilt, yes (only) when I want to and change my mind if I feel like it.

I will practice serenity by embracing acceptance.

My New Year’s resolution for 2009 is challenging in its simplicity; to let life unfold in each new day and take it as it comes – as easy as I can. I’ve earned it.

There’s a joke that’s been making the email rounds for a while now. It’s about God, the Garden of Eden and that infamous first couple Adam and Eve. In this conjecture, Eve was created first and, oddly enough, she had three breasts. When God asked her how things were going, she reported being mostly pleased, but wondered why she had 3 breasts when all the animals were symmetrical. She didn’t want to complain, but that third breast kind of got in the way.

God agreed, reached down, removed the unnecessary mammary appendage and tossed it into the bushes. A few weeks later he called on Eve again, asking how things were.

“Fine,” she said. “But I was wondering; all the animals have a mate and I’m kind of lonely. Might I have one too?”

God agreed to grant her request and looking around said, “Now what did I do with that useless boob?”

There’s a fine question. What do we Mad Goddess women do with our useless boobs (translate husbands, partners, boyfriends or consorts – whatever suits you) when they turn out to be more of an annoyance than they seem worth?

You could start with a list of pros and cons – virtues and faults but you probably already know them by heart without ever writing them down. You could turn your troubles into a cash cow. A famous author of a woman’s detective series wrote her first book from her wishful plotting of her husband’s quick demise.

You could be grateful that we’re not as limited as our mothers and grandmothers. You know, there was a time when a woman could be committed to an insane asylum with nothing more than the signature of two relatives – her husband counting as one. Of course, that was a time when a stay in an asylum, with three meals a day and a clean bed, might have been a welcome vacation. You know what Cher says about marriage: “It’s a fine institution, if you like living in an institution.”

We could be like our daughters – a new generation of women who seem to be tipping the scales of career, money and power in their favor. The downside is that many of them end up with boys that never grow up instead of husbands.

I guess a Middle Aged Goddess, like myself, just has to learn to live with a useless boob that sometimes gets in the way, demands too much attention and (even though you think it can’t be possible) sinks to new, disappointing levels of every day.