My Things Are Making Resolutions Too
New Year's resolutions for my stuff:
-- I, your pillow, will do a better job helping you sleep: by being squishy enough to feel delicious, and hard enough to not feel too squishy. I shall not mention that this is an impossible task, for I am your pillow, and my job is to gently usher you into dreamland, YOU IMPOSSIBLE INSOMNIAC! JUST TAKE A BENADRYL! AND QUIT SCROLLING TWITTER JUST BEFORE -- Excuse me. That was the pillowcase talking. Perhaps it's time for it to be Goodwilled? You did receive it as a wedding gift 38 years ago. (Yes, you got me then too. But I am not a threadbare ingrate.)
-- As your 167 pens (including ball point, clicker-type and three snooty Flairs), we resolve that at least one of us will always be within reach. Usually, anyway. Moreover, four to 13 of us will be in your purse at any given moment. And while we reserve the right to burrow deep beneath several layers of magazines, candy wrappers, lens wipes, grocery receipts, extra scarves and a plastic bag containing ... um, a rock(?), we also resolve to be findable within a three-to-17-minute timeframe. No more than six of us will be out of ink at the same time, though one of us will always be the designated dribbler.
-- Being your closet and the closest thing you have to a crypt, I resolve not to haunt you this year, even though you DID buy that that knee-length, gold-lame blazer with the Lawrence Taylor shoulder pads in 2017. Great look ... next time you go lion taming! And all those $5 pairs of stretch pants. They stretched all right! And those checkered boots from France. Owwww! Just looking at them makes my feet hurt, and I don't even HAVE feet! Just a lot of bad choices on hangers and shelves. But be it resolved: My job is to keep these sartorial missteps camouflaged amidst the rest of your stuff, even though all you really have to do is GIVE THEM AWAY ALREADY! YOU WILL NEVER, EVER WEAR THEM, YOU HOARDING HARPY! (Sorry. The pillowcase made me say that.)
-- No more ewws! As Alfred, your dish sponge (I realize you don't know my given name), I resolve to be not at all slimy and fetid this coming year. Though if you're still using me next December ... but anyway, try I will. Just don't make me clean out the yogurt tubs. Please. PLEASE! Not the yogurt tubs!
-- We are your living room lightbulbs -- high up and hard to reach. In 2025, not a single one of us will go out, even though you leave us on ALL THE TIME when you're not home. Do you think we LIKE sweating all day long? Do you remember back when your mom would say, "Close the lights when you leave the room"? So why don't you?
-- As your mirror I will ... oh God. What CAN I do? You were married 38 years ago. Need I say more?
Oh? You really need me to say more? OK: I will present you as if I am a discontinued Instagram filter. I will do this by reflecting you through the scrim of memory, so you sort of see your old self on top of your current self. You're welcome.
-- Weirdly, my name is Alfred too. No relation to your sponge. (Eww.) I am your half-eaten muffin from Nov. 26. Over here. In your purse. Look for the baggie. Starting this week, when you find me (and a broken pen), I will spend 2025 OUT of your purse and in a landfill. With your pillowcase!
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Lenore Skenazy is president of Let Grow, a contributing writer at Reason.com, and author of "Has the World Gone Skenazy?" To learn more about Lenore Skenazy (Lskenazy@yahoo.com) and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.
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