I figured out my New Year’s Resolution on New Year’s Eve, only twenty minutes before midnight at some kind of benefit in San Francisco that I will have to tell you about another time, but anyway, I was talking with Boobarella. This was Carl’s name for her. She is fifty years old, and perhaps the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. Do I sound gay saying this? Well, everyone in the room thought the same thing. She could have been Candice Bergman or Kate Hepburn, tall, stunningly blond, dressed in sequins with a real life Hollywood haircut that spiraled down to her shoulders. Her best friend is a hairdresser for the stars, and only charged her $200 for it; normally, they go for $600. Just so you know. I didn’t know there was such a thing as a Hollywood haircut.
I digress. And I’m going to digress a little bit more. Miguel told her that she knew she was part Swedish. She said, “How can you tell?”
He said, “Your nose.”
“My nose?! Give me a break!”
“Okay, your boobs.”
I think that’s how she got her name. Carl named her Boobarella. I only use this name with the highest of respect. Anyway, it was Boobarella’s idea that instead of feeling guilty over how good I have it, instead of stressing out that I’m not doing enough, that I instead should slow down, let it go and be grateful. With only minutes to go before midnight, I thought, Wow, what perfect timing. I’ll make this my resolution.
At last, an attainable resolution. They’d always been so impossible to achieve before. I’d give up by March. But being grateful? 365 days of being grateful would be 365 days of peace.
“Can you see how easy it is?” said Boobarella.
“Boobarella, how do you know this? How did you become so wise?”
“Let’s say, I’ve walked on both sides. But I just got over it. We were put on earth to be happy.”
That’s my New Year’s Resolution.
Then the next morning Miguel and Matt dropped me on the descent down Olema Hill on Sir Francis Drake. What the hell. I’m not sure exactly how this happened, as I was with them to through the crest of the climb. They weigh more than I do, obviously. Well, I saw one of them slow down for the other. I thought for sure they’d slow down for me. It would be such an easy thing to do. About ten minutes into it, however, pedaling as hard as I could, I realized this was not going to happen.
I then thought for sure they’d wait for me outside of the park, or at least somewhere. Wrong. That’s when I did what any sensible person would do. I cried. I’ve never been dropped like this before. I’ve never cried on a ride before.
At least they waited for me at the top of White’s Hill, which, although technically the end of the ride, is still more than I can say for Mike who rode the whole way from Olema to Fairfax by himself after dropping us all on the climb. The irony is that Miguel was telling me that he and Matt were wondering what his problem was. Didn’t he know this was a group ride?
Anyway, I shared with them my opinion, which was that this was the worst group ride ever. Why not just use aerobars, I wondered, and train for triathlons.
“Because then I’d just go faster and drop you even sooner,” said Mike.
I have 363 more days to practice being grateful.