Promises

Slept all through, which is rare on New Year's Eve. Usually, I wake at some point, if only for the fireworks. But since they did a mirror ball instead, nothing roused me from slumber until Moby purring at us for being in bed so late. Which is to say, nearly 8am.

Salved my raw face, irritated eyelids, and dry hands, then out to have lunch with D's parents. They brought up a movie called 'god ain't ded' (or something like.) I am not about to agree with them, nor contradict, nor even engage. Since MIL got talking about the miracle of how teeth are made, I refrained from pointing out that a real engineer would have built them to last better, and instead went off about sensodyne toothpaste, and my own year of broken teeth and crowns and not eating any more popcorn and what a good dentist I have. D thanked me on the way home, adding that not only did he prefer to talk dentistry than theology with his parents, but would rather have dentistry performed. I agreed, adding that dental procedures are to a purpose.

The distraction did seem to work, derailing their attempts to bring us to god. Over two decades ago, they wanted us to be married in the temple*. Had to back up, and try to get me to read the BoM. Then to make sure D was going to church at least some. Now, apparently, they've figured out they need to simply get us believing that god isn't dead. I hope they still have more room behind them.

Then we attended The King's English bookshop, where D's christmas gift card worked. A tiny, cubby-ridden place, certainly with a door into L-space, and crowded with browsers. I'd noticed a large paper on a door with pen attached, and the title "New Year's Book Resolutions!" I ignored it, but had to linger near it for a while. One of the people who work there (I presume) suggested I add my own.

"No, thank you."

"You can promise to read more books!"

"No, thank you."

I consider this rather awful. Resolutions are to do difficult, unpleasant things. I love reading, I read what I can. I don't get how I could make a resolution about books. It takes time for me to really enjoy a book, to mull it over, and often these days, re-read it. But this is for pleasure, nothing I have to force myself to do. I don't have to resolve to eat more chocolate, drink more tea, or buy more mugs, after all.





This hasn't felt like any kind of a holiday. Not in a bad way, just any old day off work. I'll go in tomorrow, remember to write the correct year, although for the next week after I'll get it wrong repeatedly. I should have swept or cleaned, but I read. Not a bad year I'm ready to be shut of, a simple year of sufficiency, no drama, no crisis. A house with garden, cats, and a guy who loves me, as is.