Body
Afew days ago, during one of those rare occasions when our whole family was together and my three semi-grown daughters weren’t nursing an iPhone while wearing universe-canceling headphones, my wife posed probably the most oft-asked question this time of year: “Does anyone have any New Year’s resolutions?” Although that conversation quickly took an off-ramp into a discussion of something earthshattering like Taylor Swift’s armpits, it got me thinking about my own potential resolutions, or, in my case, “anti-resolutions.” First, I am not resolving to worry about my weight or the general decomposition of my anatomy this year. Now, don’t get me wrong, I will continue to participate in some daily geriatric exercise-ish activities, and I will still attempt to avoid most foods that will kill me if ingested in satisfying quantities, but I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that I adore chips and salsa far too much to go on anything resembling a diet.