January, for me, as for many of you, is stock-taking month. It's time to take the blinkers off and really look at the person in the mirror, scary as that is.
First off is my physical self and the sad realization that the only critter that's going to have a flat belly as a result of my diet is the pig that gave his for the bacon I never seem to pass up.
It's time to once again contemplate the necessity for some real movement in my life. And facing up to the fact that walking between the TV room and the kitchen is not a fitness plan.
I don't know what's worse: the knowledge of just how bad I look in a swim suit at Aquafit or the knowledge of just how much worse I'll look if I don't haul my sorry carcass down to the pool pronto. I suspect the exercise purists among us are shaking their heads at my vanity, but frankly, if it wasn't for the thought of looking like the pig with its belly, I would happily die of sloth.
The other part of me that always begs for improvement this time of year is my mind. For all of you sitting and nodding your head as you read that statement, remember nastiness is a deadly sin, too!
Anyway, what to do to improve the old grey matter is a big concern to me. Ever since I read Still Alice, I live in dread of losing my mental faculties. So I do crosswords. Next to the one in this newspaper, my favourite is the New York Times daily puzzle. I suspect that particular word challenge was put on earth only to make those of us who think they're smart realize how truly stupid we really are.
Generally speaking, I'm good for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, then it's uphill all the way. Once I completed the Saturday crossword and truly felt like a genius until my husband, whose only contribution to the puzzle is to fill in disgusting words whenever I leave it unguarded, remarked that millions of people could do the same. And while I know that's true, it sure took the magic out of the moment.
Another way I like to reassemble my aging brain is with the weekly challenge of Toastmasters. And although all the pundits say that fear of public speaking is the number one fear in the world - overtaking the fear of death for that ranking - my personal fear is that I'll die speaking in public. I can just picture it in my mind. I'm halfway through a discourse on some profound subject and conk - over I go. The only giggle I get from that picture is the thought of my evaluator trying to give suggestions for improvement.
"You died too quickly, Cathie. Next time make it more suspenseful," I imagine him or her saying.
The last and most difficult part of me that needs improvement is always the spiritual side. It's damn hard to be a cynical journalist and be a loving and giving human being at the same time. Most of the time, much to my chagrin, the witchy-with-a-B side of my persona takes over. I'm surprised God hasn't given up on me. Or maybe He has and I'm just too busy doing crossword puzzles to get the message. The one thing I'm pretty sure of is how He punishes sinners - bathing suits.
If you see me at the pool, be kind. I'm a work in progress. Happy New Year.
