I hereby resolve...

Alright, I guess it’s inevitable. Time to make some resolutions.

It’s been forever since I’ve done this. Years of my life have gone by with nary a resolution made, and for one simple reason -- I’m awesome in every way and can’t be improved upon.

OK, resolution number one: Stop lying about how awesome I am.

The real reason I don’t typically make them is because the whole endeavor seems a bit artificial. The dividing line from one year to the next is arbitrary, a divvying up of time into digestible chunks that’s invented wholly for human convenience. Trees, trucks and snow leopards can’t tell the difference between 2015 and 2016. People follow the calendar because otherwise we wouldn’t know when to show up for work or paint Easter eggs, and we’ve been doing this for so long that when we switch from one year to the next, it feels somehow momentous. We think change is about to happen, when really, change is all there is.

So I stopped making resolutions a long time ago, figuring that if something had to change, I’d just change it, and not wait for Carson Daly and his light-up Times Square ball to give me the green light. Still, sometimes you procrastinate, and items on the to-do list start piling up. For this reason, I’ll grit my teeth -- resolution number two, stop gritting my teeth -- and make a few resolutions. Let the record show that I’m all pouting and childlike.

Resolution number three: Stop being all pouting and childlike.

See why I don’t make them? There’s a hat-trick already, and the engine’s still warming up. Conveniently, though, this does smooth the way for resolution number four: Start eating better. Oh, this is a common one, I know, prompted by holiday binge eating, which in turn is inspired by good cheer and merriment --  to say nothing of the easy availability of four-foot long chocolates shaped like alien probes. It’s perhaps the most common promise that people make to themselves around the turn of the new year, but now it seems especially pressing, considering my belt’s run out of loops and my pants could be used as a tourniquet on the severed limb of a samurai.

Healthy people, you see, consider food to be the body’s fuel; sane, pragmatic options like apples and chicken are eaten to provide nutritional energy, which is then used to power everyday activities, like walking and playing “Gangster’s Paradise” on a banjo. I aspire to this type of approach. Mostly I succeed, since the only edibles I keep in the house are bread, eggs and Cocoa Puffs (for the iron, of course). But then the holidays come around, and my Spartan dining options are supplanted by foods that clog the arteries faster than a woodchuck farts in springtime. Bread is replaced by candy canes, eggs by chocolate Santas, and Cocoa Puffs by actual cocoa. So yes, time to start eating better. And walking farther than the nearest 7-11.

Resolution number five: Stop chewing so much gum. It started innocently; stick a couple Wrigleys in your yapper and it’s like a stress ball for the mouth, an outlet for all kinds of pent-up energy. Plus it makes your breath smell like a spring meadow filled with blooming daffodils (with a faint undercurrent of garlic sauce and whiskey). The habit can easily get out of hand, though. One stick at the beginning was fine, but then the cravings set in -- for two, three sticks at a time. When I hit four sticks I knew something had to be done. With a minimal amount of gum in your mouth, it’s easily concealable and not outrageously offensive, though you probably don’t want to do it during a board meeting or make-out session at the drive-in. With four sticks, it looks like you lost a bet and had to stuff an entire coconut into your jaw.

Speaking of coconuts, resolution number six: Eat more coconuts. For some reason I can’t shake the false notion that I hate them; whenever I eat one -- or, more commonly, taste it somewhere in a candy bar -- I’m always surprised by the fact that I like them. You’d think with all this eating experience I’d have a better handle on what I enjoy, but I’m apparently incapable of learning that I love coconuts, hate hot dogs, and writhe in digestive pain whenever I come within a half-mile radius of any powdered doughnut. If I ever discover a coconut-flavored hot dog doughnut I think my head will explode.

Resolution number seven: Develop a regular flossing habit. I floss in spurts, and when it happens I feel a sense of accomplishment completely out of proportion to what I’m actually doing. My pride rivals that of a physicist unlocking the deep mysteries of dark energy; it’s a pretty harsh comedown to realize I’m just clearing out old popcorn kernels. This of course will cease to be an issue once I switch to an all-coconut diet.

And finally, resolution number eight: Don’t sweat the little things.

That means different things to different people. For me, it means not obsessing over trivial matters, like whether people like me, or tripping over my own feet during the Texas Two-Step. Life is a fleeting moment; it’s shameful to expend energy fretting.

So here’s a final resolution: By this time next year, I shouldn’t have any resolutions at all. With my feet propped on a leather ottoman and a cigar dangling from the corner of my mouth, I’ll look back at the year that was and say, “Well, that’s pretty much the way that should have gone.”