Every year, I make a few New Year’s resolutions. I don’t usually make them public because the last thing I need in my life is someone holding me accountable to what I say or write. It’d be like if President Trump said something like, “We’re gonna build a big, beautiful wall, and Mexico is gonna pay for it,” and his supporters actually held him to it.
No, I can’t handle accountability any more than he can. Unfortunately, I can’t blame everybody else — Democrats, the fake news, the Fed, Rosie O’Donnell — for my failures. If I make a resolution, publicly, I’ve got to own it.
Over the years I’ve privately made the resolution to lose 15 pounds in the coming year with a combination of better eating and more exercise. I’ve made that resolution so many times that by now I should weigh approximately minus-125 pounds. Having recently purchased a couple pair of new blue jeans for the winter — assuming it gets cold enough to wear them — I can verify that I must not weigh minus-125 pounds.
I’ve resolved to read more, to advance my nearly nonexistent guitar skills, to meditate and to not get involved in political debates on Facebook. Again, those resolutions were not only private ones but also complete and utter failures. I mean, it’s hard to read and play guitar when I get a Facebook notification from a right-wing friend arguing with me over a government shutdown (over a wall that Mexico was going to pay for). And then I’m too mad to meditate.
But I do have one resolution to make this year — publicly. And if I fail on this one, you won’t have to bother holding me accountable. The failure will be clearly pointed out.
My public resolution this year is to not die of a heart attack. For some of you, that resolution is sort of a given. You’re the kind of person who will resolve to not die at all in the coming year and, in fact, are such a procrastinator that you will put off dying for decades until you’re like 105 years old and forget to make such a resolution.
I, however, have to make that resolution because at this time last year, I had already had, was having and would have again a heart attack, some more heart attack and bunch of heart attack. It was all rather unclear exactly how many or how bad the attack or attacks got, but the general consensus when I finally wound up at the hospital was that I shouldn’t be alive. I’m not sure if that was a comment about my widow-maker artery’s 99 percent blockage or my 99 percent crap private insurance, but they were all rather surprised I was alive.
I kept the massive chest pains to myself for a couple of weeks and can’t figure out how I survived the Georgia Bulldogs’ semifinal overtime win over Oklahoma a year ago or their loss to Alabama in national title game. My chest hurt when I walked, when I stood up and when I tried to work out, but it never hurt as bad as it did during those two games. Apparently, jumping off the sofa and screaming at the television while you’re almost dying of a heart attack is a bad idea.
Fortunately, after I broke down and told my wife I was in rather extreme pain that an extra multivitamin a day didn’t seem to be helping, she and my physician conspired to send me to the emergency room and fix me up.
Not only did I get my artery Roto-Rootered and a stent put in, but my Georgia Bulldogs helped me by just missing the college football playoffs, obviously worried that I might not be able to handle the stress. And my Atlanta Falcons went a step further, making sure I knew months ago that I would not have to worry about them fooling around in the playoffs. Whew!
So, tonight, I’ll chill out while watching my Bulldogs in the Sugar Bowl. And if I die of a heart attack after all in 2019, you have my permission to hold me — or the fake news, Democrats, Mexico or Rosie O’Donnell — fully accountable.