  We drank a bottle of champagne last night. Slowly. But still not slow enough to prevent the onslaught of the headache from hell a few minutes into '04.
But the perversity of it all. I couldn't sleep for nearly 2 hours afterward. CBC was showing Dogma, so I watched a big chunk of the movie before calling it a night. I'd forgotten how fun it was. Motrin has been my drug of choice the past month or so in fighting the golfer's elbow that plagues my left arm.
And it came in handy with the headache. Then, I wake up this morning with a sore throat that morphs its way into a fever that lasts most of the day even as I try to sleep it off. What the fuck? When will all this shit let up? I've had it easier than many blogger friends, huddled in blankets with cups of TheraFlu, their holidays thoroughly marred if not ruined. I've just been inconvenienced. Speaking of marred, if not ruined, I'm watching the Rose Bowl.
But as the SoCal score rises and Michigan falls further behind, I find I'm looking away more often. I go Hot Body Shopping on BigMuscle. I'll have those pecs, those abs, those shoulders, that ass, that dick, and that pair of smoldering eyes. I can't change my eyes or dick. Easily. But I can resolve to make other changes. Not that I'm a big fan of resolutions. In fact, I didn't make resolutions until 1998 on an earlier version of this weblog. I can't remember what they were.
Uh oh... is that a good thing? When I brought up the subject of resolutions last night at dinner, my boyfriend, Mr. Self Help, said "I don't make resolutions. " And launched into an explanation about the general futility of it all, while me eyes glazed over. But I'm used to this. When he finished, I said, "Uh huh. I'm resolving to send holiday cards next year.
" He smiled, knowing he lost this round of our back-and-forth, giving each other shit routine. I do subscribe to the notion that a lot of our resolution-making might be a meaningless exercise. Every January, I watch good intentioned souls younger than me with flab and love handles line up at the gym to buy their membership. I know they'll crowd the weights for a month and then disappear, only to return in a year. Or not. I feel bad because I'm sure they feel bad. Speaking of defeats, I resolved last year to read an extra book a month. Didn't happen, to say the least. But it's not all about failure. I wanted to put on about 15 pounds of muscle last year, and I did.
I think I made one of those vague resolutions about taking greater control of my life and free time, or some such mush. But, looking back, I think I succeeded. I explored more of life, met some cool guys, had some great sex, began feeding my long and latent interest in foreign policy. Alright, enough of the review. What do I want to do this year? Can my small-boned 5'9" frame support another 5-10 pounds of lean and defined muscle without looking too big?
I'd like to find out. Here we go again: one extra book read every month for pleasure. More consistent and complete reading of the Post and the Times every day. I want to host something regularly on national television. I'm going to get a dog by the end of the year. That's enough. Five resolutions is plenty. Given my record, it might be three too many. Oh yeah, and that one about the holiday cards. That counts, too. 
