I’ve already had a call from our children telling me not to expect gifts this year because they’re tightening their belts.
Their new year’s resolution, they tell me.
I understand they’ve got mortgages, families and bills up to their eyeballs. But I like gifts. I like surprises, and they don’t have to be expensive. Thoughtful, yes. Worth a bundle, not necessarily.
Maybe I’ll again be getting home-made gifts like those we stashed away in boxes during their primary school years – pictures of me that look nothing like me, frames decorated with shells the teacher had collected during their holidays, art built with bottle cleaners.
And in their later years, an apparatus they’d invented in woodworking class for which I’m yet to find a purpose.
We pull them out during for moments of nostalgia over cheese and kabana with barbecue biscuits.
One of our children has since learned to knit. Another bought a drop saw they found heavily discounted on the internet, apparently with dreams of shaping driftwood into artistic light fittings.
They’ve offered me one of those “chandeliers”, but I told them I like my presents wrapped.
An overhead light tower does not lend itself to a 5m x 1m happy birthday roll from the $2 shop. Nor does it lend itself to a Hampton-style decor we modernised 10 years ago to see us into retirement.
Never mind, I’m sure “no gifts” doesn’t actually mean “no gifts”. They’ll be creative. I know it. And so do they.
Wanda too has dipped into the bucket of new year’s resolutions.
She’s dusted off her Jane Fonda activewear and Stella McCartney shoes I bought her about 10 years ago at the same time we were decorating the house.
The idea was to get her out and about, leaving me alone to work with the tradies. But she had my cunning plan unraveled in no time, opting for 80s music and a yoga mat on the back deck.
That was fine until the plan really blew up in my face, when she got bored jumping around to Spandau Ballet and Madonna in her tights alone, opting to make it a group activity with a gaggle of frail home bodies she’d befriended at neighbourhood watch meetings.
I wasn’t sure whether the renovation team was pulling out their nail gun, or if one of the old dears had snapped a hip.
Either way, Wanda’s again decided that the new year is an ideal time to lose a few kilos. I don’t think she needs it, but she’s determined to defeat any self-esteem demons that might be sitting on her left shoulder.
What I do know is that she’ll be leaning on me for support, which I’ll happily embrace.
The guy down the street makes new year his time to ask for a game of tennis. He gets motivated by the Australian Open, but calls it his resolution.
We all know it won’t last beyond January, but he’ll be call on me to dip my toes into my Volleys and brush up on my net play. Shorter points.
The only thing we’ll resolve is that neither of us should be playing tennis anymore, and that no matter how old we get, he’s the better player.
That leaves little time for my own resolutions. I’ll just keep pottering away at my own speed, making decisions each day, planning very little, but achieving enough to keep my half-speed mind challenged and satisfied.
I’ll look to help others with their goals, whatever they might be, sharing my real thoughts with Wags as we meander our way through the park on our daily walks.
Wags won’t care. No new year’s resolutions required for my four-legged friend who trusts that I’ll feed and exercise him, before tucking him away in his bed straight after the nightly news.
Life goes on. For Wags. As it does for us all.
Hey Wanda, have you seen that book I was reading before Christmas?
