Ten Things I'm Not Going to Do

My birthday is this week. It's one of those momentous birthdays. When my mother had this birthday, some thirty years ago, she was in a coma and had four days left to live. Nevertheless I woke up this morning perfectly happy, and I still am, although my literary career is in the toilet and there are a number of other hard truths I find myself unable to deny. Hey, at least I'm not going to be dead in four days, that I know of.

So, a list of things that, let's face it, I'm not going to do. Not going to have to do, not going to be able to do, or just not going to do.

1. Die right away.
2. Write my autobiography. Many of you will be happy about that. You know who you are.
3. Lose the twenty pounds. If they're not gone by now they're here to stay.
4. Make a pants suit out of the loud wool plaid stuff I got last summer. On sober reflection I feel that such a garment would make me look as if I had dressed myself as a racetrack tout for Halloween. Instead I think I'll make a poncho out of it.
5. Have Christmas dinner with my ex-husband and his wife.
6. Give another dime to a political party.
7. Forget to take my pills.
8. Pass up a chance to go out to dinner with Harold. This is Lambertville, after all, where you can't get a bad meal. Except maybe in our house when I'm trying a new recipe.
9. Perform a tap dance in public. (Although I have a great pair of shoes for it.)
10. Master the English concertina. I keep saying I'll take it up again, but…

Okay, enough of this. I'm going to go have fun now. Carpe diem and all that. You go have some fun too. Life is short.

© 2013 Kate Gallison