Nineteen eighty-seven. The sweet sound of success. The year of happiness. The year of new beginnings. The year for me. My year! This is the year I change. I mean rip-snortin’ change here. I mean real, dig-it-out-by-the-roots-and-burn-the-blasted-habit change. This year I will lose over 100 pounds. This year I will clean my house. No, I mean clean my house. I don’t mean stuff-all-the-junk-in-a-box-and-hide-it clean. I mean every box sorted out, every dresser drawer straightened, every closet organized. I mean every window glistening, every carpet shampooed, every cupboard door with a nonstick surface. I mean every switch plate defingermarked, every cobweb removed, every door frame dusted! I mean clean!
This year I will emerge from this horrid imitation of a humanoid, and the real me—the thin, sweet, organized me—will appear. Only the name will remain the same. All else changes. Well, except maybe my eyebrows. I do have nice eyebrows. And I like the color of my eyes. But my cheeks look like the never-ending story. I’d like to lose about one half of each. Even my nose looks rather fat. Yet, in spite of my fat nose, I’m excited. Okay. Don’t laugh. I have to say it: “This is it. I really mean it!”