On New Years Eve 2014, I was in Las Vegas and by the time midnight rolled around – man, I was flying high!

Ok, well, actually, I was delayed in the Las Vegas Airport on my way home on December 31 and when the midnight hour struck Jan. 1 2014, I was (finally) in the air somewhere over Kansas (which could be perceived as a good or bad omen depending on your POV).

Despite this scintillating passage into 2014, I have managed to hold onto my tradition of not really facing the prospects of a new year until long after interest has died away.

First of all let me say, in the words of my brother – “New Year’s Resolutions are for chumps.”  (in truth what he  said was “fruit is for chumps”, but, like a sea turtle, I adapted).

Bottom line, I don’t do resolutions.

That is not to say, however, there are not some things I wish I did better, such as; exercise more, eat less sugar, drink more water and less coffee, have a cleaner house, write more (maybe even write a New Year’s post actually on New Year’s), be a better wife and a cooler mom (the kind that lets them eat Doritos and use the microwave), put up holiday decorations more than a few days before a holiday and… have perkier boobs.  I would love to be the person that shops at farmers markets, has dinner parties, can keep a plant alive, loves every second of kids’ sporting events, doesn’t need to have gray hairs dyed constantly and… has perkier boobs.

However, since I resolve to never make New Year’s Resolutions, I am stuck with a few survival type choices:  make it through another Midwest winter with my butt intact, laugh with abandon at the stupidest jokes, get on my snowboard at least once, finish watching Dexter (cause what is better when stuck inside for days on end than spending it with a serial killer with a code), and… pretend to have perkier boobs.

I won’t be in better shape, have less dust on my furniture, grow my own vegetables or have a festive looking house but…

At least, I’ll be no chump (with imaginary perky boobs)

Bring it on,  2014, I’m ready now.