10 Resolutions to End This Effed-Up Year of Trump
As I write this, we’re two-and-a-half weeks away from the end of 2016 and the beginning of a new year. Get out the gold horns and uncork the champagne. Whoopee! Not.
Trying to deny a certainty is an exercise in vanity.
Seriously, if you are one of the select few who emerged unscathed by the brutal randomness of 2016, then you were not just lucky but an anomaly. Last New Year’s Eve, I had a strange hunch, as I sat in a Chinese restaurant (one I will most likely patronize again this New Year’s Eve), that 2016 was going to be an insane year, one that would defy the lexicon when it comes to creating descriptions for posterity. Like a turbulent, 1968-type of year. Much of my intuition was grounded more in pure common sense as opposed to any psychic ability, as I knew we were heading into an important, potentially historic election. Without rehashing the unpalatable details of what transpired, I was correct.
But even with the election, I could not have predicted the death of two great rock icons, David Bowie and Prince or Britain’s shocking vote to exit the European Union. I couldn’t foretell the heartbreaking losses and insidious diseases that befell so many beloved friends and relatives.
I suppose I got off easy this year. Yes, going to the oral surgeon wasn’t the highlight of my year nor was undergoing the throes of a temporary job upheaval pleasurable. But eventually I got rehired by my old company and my dental implant was an inconsequential annoyance juxtaposed to what loved ones were experiencing. I hope 2017 will indeed be the harbinger of good health and happiness for all of them.
There’s always Spain.
At the same time, let’s be honest and kill the orange elephant in the room: 2017 doesn’t exactly promise to be a proverbial walk in the park, at least for those of us who didn’t vote for You Know Who. Barring a last-minute development, such as the Electoral College not casting their lot for the Orange Bloviator or someone else, I assume the demagogue with the New Yawk accent and the bad combover will move into the White House on Jan. 20. As a staunch Hillary Clinton supporter (I campaigned for her during the primaries), I’m not smacking my lips in anticipation. Unfortunately, Trump’s inauguration, at least, at this moment in time, is a certainty. And trying to deny a certainty is an exercise in vanity, with time better spent doing something positive — like making 10 uplifting resolutions for 2017.
Here are mine:
- I will not gnash my teeth and mutter a dozen expletives while watching Trump swear the presidential oath; nor will I foam at the mouth like a rabid dog every time I turn on the TV or read the newspaper detailing yet another faux pas and flagrant falsehood dribbling from his mouth. Instead, I will think about my early spring trip to Spain. When all else fails, think of Barcelona. That’s it! Voy a España!
- I will not wonder why dental insurance doesn’t pay for dental implants. Do they think we all want to look like Trump voters? Hee, hee. Oops. Silly, gauche me. Yeah, I’m still bitter. Sue me.
- I will ponder how it doesn’t make sense how sweet, nice William on Westworld could have degenerated into the nasty, snarling, viciously violent Man in Black as incarnated by Ed Harris. Was this psychological shift all because he fell in love with Dolores the farm-girl android or “host” who didn’t remember him the next time he saw her? So now he beats the crap out of her every time he sees her as a kind of retribution? Give me a break.
- I will stop watching, ad nauseam, Season 7 Game of Thrones predictions from myriad YouTubers. Spoiler alert: Targaryen aunt and nephew Jon and Dany bang; I know, they don’t know they’re related and probably won’t find out next season. But it’s still gross. I’m not a fan of incest even in a fantasy world. I’m old-fashioned that way. Next.
- I will refrain from checking to see if my forthcoming novel, An Epiphany in Lilacs (Mazo Publishers), has typos after it’s published and distributed in both online and offline stores.
- I will seriously explore the idea of moving to California — if that state does indeed make an earnest attempt to secede from the rest of the country. Who am I kidding? My post-menopausal self can’t stand humidity and excessive heat. Plus, spending nearly every waking minute on the freeway in my car isn’t a scenario I relish.
- If life under Trump gets too oppressive, I will fly to Colorado or Washington or California or another state where recreational cannabis is legal, to rekindle my old college penchant for pot. No, scratch that: I haven’t smoked a joint in almost 30 years. My sense of smell is no longer as tolerant of the substance’s slightly pungent scent. Although I do support legalization, please don’t smoke your bowl in my house. Thanks.
- I will not scream at ear-deafening decibels when someone in Trump’s Cabinet of deplorables is pontificating in the media over something I know is patently untrue; instead I will go to the gym and exercise and exorcise my ire over a stolen election, the imminent repeal of Obamacare, the prospective gutting of Medicare, Social Security and eradication of basic civil rights extended to anyone who isn’t a white, upper-class, pseudo-Christian male, over many hours of leg-crunching cardio and treadmills. Again and again and again.
- Um. See 1 through 8.
- I will be thankful for my health and the tonic of banality and try not to get caught up in the vortex of a very bizarre political era. If not, there’s always Spain.
Happy Holidays and have a wonderful New Year. See you in 2017.