Without Resolution

Garrett

Garrett put away the couch’s ever-growing pile of coats and overshirts, and washed the fuzzy remnants of mystery liquids from the coffee table’s compiled mugs. Then, he put out paper cone hats, hung silver and gold streamers, and replaced the moldy mugs with champagne flutes circling a bottle. The space was shockingly presentable. So, heading into the party, Garrett already felt accomplished.

Now, an intimate gathering of friends weaved through his kitchen, living room, and out the back of his townhouse to a fenced-off backyard. They huddled around a reserved fire that was to continue burning through the crisp night. He had stolen the idea from Zeke, who kept a fire burning all night for his Solstice party 10 days ago. But Zeke’s fire meant something significant—the guests wrote down negative things from the past year on scraps of paper, and when burned, those things fell into the ashes to be left behind. Some Pagan ritual that Garrett didn’t understand exactly. But the idea seemed fun. So now it was his. Zeke didn’t seem to mind, as he stood by the fire swirling his spiced wine in his Solo cup. All the guests were chatting and drinking. All was going well.

On past New Year’s, Garrett had announced that the tradition of making resolutions was rather stupid. On the few years he’d made one, he either forgot or gave up by February. It felt more like making a wish when blowing out birthday cake candles.

Garrett looked to the clean table, to the swept floor, to where guests piled their coats on the couch. He’d put goals off indefinitely if not pushed to do them by an outside force—maybe this could be an outside force. But for what goal? Maybe his guests could inspire him.

*

Grayson & Weston

To start exercising more.

Weston wanted to buy a desk treadmill he saw on Amazon. Grayson would finally use their gym membership.

*

Rob

To lose weight.

Rob milled around the fire in active avoidance of the kitchen. Even the living room smelled of jalapeno poppers, pretzel bites, tamales, nachos—he needed the cold outdoor air in his nostrils instead. He hadn’t had a bite to eat, though he was drinking. He would later find this to be a bad decision, his stomach protesting with acid reflux—long behind him were the days of living off cup noodles and peanut butter. Though, Rob still didn’t have the best diet these days, most meals came from either a fast food bag or frozen microwavable box.

The pressure of his desire to lose weight slowly built on him. He knew that he shouldn’t scrutinize his appearance. He was supposed to lose weight to feel good about himself, or to look out for his future health—but he couldn’t help but be motivated by self-consciousness.

Margaret had been significantly heavier than him since they met, and she was, both then and now, the most beautiful woman alive. And she made him feel attractive the last time he managed to undress in front of her. But Rob was so disgusted by his own body that his wife’s reassurances felt like pity. Faked for his ego.

Plus, he’d seen people fawning over ‘dad bods’ online. It should have been another reassurance. His body was still ok as it was. But Rob wasn’t a dad—he and Margaret never had children. And it was a little late for that now. And it was fine, that’s what he wanted. What they both wanted. To live out their youth unburdened. To have the money to travel, to go out whenever they wanted, to have sex on the kitchen table at noon.

Except they weren’t doing that anymore. His youth disappeared. Rob settled into his older age. His older body. His dad bod. He supposed he was starting to look a bit like his father, wasn’t he?

Rob took a sip of his gin and tonic. It burned into his empty stomach.

*

Virginia & Kirk

To learn Spanish.

Virginia held out her phone to proudly display her 1-week streak on Duolingo. Kirk said he already knows enough for their trip to Spain, “¿Dónde está el baño? and ¿Dónde está la cerveza?” He laughed at himself. Virginia did not laugh.

*

Margaret

To go out more.

Margaret tried to decide whether this party should count as her first of the year, or if that would be cheating since it technically started in December. She didn’t want to immediately give up on her resolution. She’d decided to go to one party a month, if possible. She and Rob had plenty of friends, but began to ignore all of the invitations at some point. Though, invitations would taper off after the holiday season. She would have to make an effort to see friends. At least once a month—brunch, a wine and movie night, manicures—just go out. Out of the house’s confines.

She also wanted to have date nights with Rob again. Margaret’s mind wandered back to the two of them dancing, visiting art shows, having dinner at fancy restaurants and pretending they were food critics. And her favorite trip: the Mediterranean cruise—the Venetian gondola, the streets of Rome!

“Quel est le plat du jour?” Margaret whispered to herself. Still memorized from her practicing to recite in a Parisian café. Croque monsieur, the special, was a very fancy ham sandwich.

The cruise was supposed to be the first of many. Now her and Rob’s big excitement was when one of their shows released a new season on Netflix. The two weren’t even sleeping together anymore.

Lingering in her mind was the paranoid narrative of a husband needing to seek out excitement in the bed of another. This worrying worked to distract her from the loneliness pressing into her chest. She wanted things to go back to the way they were.

Behind Garratt’s townhome, Margaret found Rob by the fire and wrapped an arm around his waist, the warmth of his sweater pressing into her side as she pulled him close to her. She kissed him on the cheek. He was frigid as the air.

*

Deirdre & Fred

To save money.

Fred said he’d stop eating out so much. Deirdre asked if his wife was upset about that. Fred fought a giggle and frowned at his friend’s salacity.

*

Rose

To quit smoking (again). To brush her teeth (at least once) every day.

“Self-care,” Rose answered resolution-inquiring party-goers. Vague enough so they could assume whatever they thought it meant. Maybe Rose would bullet journal, buy a Hydro Flask, and try a new 1-hour skincare routine using a $40 face serum made from snail mucin. That superior version of herself could only live in the imaginations of strangers, so she wanted to let it.

Garrett joined Rose as she ambled away from the quiet couple around the fire. She propped herself against the fence and fished in the pocket of her puffer jacket.

“I’m gonna quit smoking,” Rose said. Garrett raised his eyebrows at her as she flicked her lighter and took a drag. “Tomorrow,” She assured him with a chuckle. “I’ve tried before. Horrible headaches. Makes you crabby. I didn’t want to be crabby for your party.”

“Appreciate it,” Garrett chuckles. “I can’t start yet either—still don’t have a resolution.”

“Nothing you want to change?”

“Everything feels too big. Or too small. I’ve been asking around for inspiration, but nothing feels right.”

Rose considered sharing more of her ‘goals’ with him. Not that she was actually working toward them. They felt too overwhelming for her to face head-on. They spun around her head constantly as reminders of her shortcomings. Goals she needed to set to reach normalcy—things everyone else was already achieving. She had fallen behind.

Fix her posture. Download a meditation app. Go to bed at a reasonable hour—stop staying up playing word games on her phone—stop eating chocolate at 2am once sleep has been declared impossible—or at least brush her teeth after eating chocolate at 2am.

Rose decided not to share her goals with Garratt and took another drag.

*

Garrett

Garrett felt inspired by his friends, vague as that inspiration was. Margaret said one party a month. He wondered if that kind of specificity was the secret to accomplishing goals. To see them through.

Okay, so that’s what he would do. Once a month, he would—what? What did he want?

He imagined himself adopting the wants of other people, and quickly realized he didn’t want any of their ideas either. He imagined himself speaking Spanish fluently, which was appealing on the surface—but then imagined himself downloading Virginia’s app, sitting down for 15 minutes a day to clumsily sift through sentences and learn vocabulary words, all so that in a year he could potentially slog through a simple conversation. He didn’t have any close friends who were native Spanish speakers. He wasn’t going to Spain. What was the point? Everything seemed like so much effort, for results that gleamed and shone in the periphery, but that were actually lackluster and undesirable if looked at for more than a second.

Maybe he didn’t want anything.

*

Garrett

The next morning, Garrett woke up in a pile on his couch. Freezing. He reached to grab for a coat from the end seat, but there was nothing there.

He fell asleep shortly after the Ball Drop. Had someone kept the fire going all night?

Garrett groaned and cradled his head before finding the will to push himself up. The back door was left cracked open. A light flurry landed atop a hill of ashes. And he was alone.

Garrett trudged to the kitchen to get a glass of water, kicking aside piles of confetti from party poppers, past the coffee table littered with half-empty champagne flutes.

To drink some freaking water.

To stop trying to become his friends.

To give up on resolutions for good.