Sylvia looked at the moon, a smudged coin disappearing in a cloudy sky. It would rain soon, probably before morning. That didn’t matter: she planned to be safe in bed by then. Tomorrow night, she was going north, but tonight – tonight was hers. Tonight was an ice-cubed whiskey in a heavy glass. The fish? No, the beef — with scallops to start and a wine so red it turned black on her tongue. Then coffee and honey-wet pastry, sticky and sweet, and a hotel bedroom key. It was a night of boat neck shoulders, cuff length sleeves and a tight walk hemline. It was a night of long jewelry earrings that touched her throat, a dancing emerald ring and tall heels. It was a night that men and their women noticed her when she walked in, watched her sit down and wondered who she was there for. It was a night of little tongue candles that made licking shadows. A night of dim shaded faces and intimate reflections. It was a night of eyelashes and lipstick and deep silver fingernails. It was a night breathing with seduction.
Once, a few years ago, when she was much younger, she’d brought a man to a night like this. He was a handsome European with diplomatic immunity and a coming career. He spent the evening trying to recruit her into his bed, like a qualified negotiator. The evening faded and finished, and Sylvia walked away. Unfortunately, a couple of days later when Sylvia didn’t call, he came looking for her and ended up meeting Mirac in an underground carpark. Since then, Sylvia kept these nights to herself.
On the other side of the moon, Karga was reading a bedtime story to his two sons, Mustafa and Taavi. It was a tale of a reluctant thief and a clever slave girl, Morgiana, who made him rich. He read parts in English so his boys would get to know the words. And when he was done, he went downstairs, drank tea with his wife and waited for the rain.
Sylvia raised her glass to where the moon should have been. And all alone in a crowded restaurant, she touched her lips to the cold glass, drank, and waited for the warmth of the whiskey.
Here we are, basking in the holy glow of our New Year’s Resolutions. We haven’t eaten anything but lettuce since the December debauch, we’ve taken the books and jackets off the treadmill (that’s a twofer!) and haven’t whipped out the credit cards for two-and-a-half whole days. This is going to be easy, right? WRONG! Statistically, New Year’s Resolutions have a 99% failure rate, and chances are good by the time it’s bathing suit season, most of us won’t be able to cram ourselves into the damn thing — even if we could afford to buy it. But it doesn’t have to be that way.
The problem is most of us approach New Year’s Resolutions as if we’re contemplating psychological suicide. Here’s the deal, folks! You can’t change your personality by flipping a page on the calendar. In fact, despite what every self-help shyster on the planet tells you, after about age 25, you can’t change your personality at all. Which means, if you’re like me and love chocolate, wine and promiscuous procrastination, you’re kinda stuck with it. So rather than attempting a midnight psychiatric makeover, stop the madness and work with what ya got. Here’s how to bully your subconscious into doing what it’s told.
Get real – Pull your head out of the clouds (or some other place.) If you owe enough cash to fund a Monaco casino, getting completely out of debt in 2020 is not a reasonable resolution. Aim low. 25 percent? 10 percent? 5 bucks a month? Make sure it works before you start shooting your mouth off in some airy-fairy internal monologue.
Quit being so vague – Thinking, “I wanna lose some weight” is crap. You know exactly how many kilos are too many: you’ve seen yourself naked. Say it out loud. Write it down. Glue it to the fridge. Now, remember your momma didn’t raise any saints, so pastry is never going to be off the menu. Check item #1, and precede with caution.
Nothing happens without a deadline – You’ve known this since grade school and, yeah, you might be feeling all adult these days, but that’s not a Hogwarts’ incantation to self-discipline. Create a date and put in on every calendar you can get your mitts on – including a telephone countdown. Without a crash-and-burn deadline, our minds tend to wander. They need to be slapped into focus.
What’s in it for me – This is where most people screw up because you can’t reward a successful diet with birthday cake or a loan payment with a spending spree. So, if you’re going to show your inner donkey a carrot, make sure it isn’t the very thing you’ve been trying to get the donkey to avoid in the first place.
All it takes is a little psychological warfare, and next November you could be rockin’ a black Look-At-Me/Look-At-Me Speedo at an exclusively expensive tropical resort of your choice. That’s what New Year’s Resolutions are for — aren’t they?
WD Fyfe 