Martha Stewart has too much time on her hands

January 1995

I look back on 1994 and realize, once again, that I haven't achieved half the things I set out to over the past year (or the past ten years, for that matter). When my college recently sent me an alumni questionnaire asking for a list of significant accomplishments since graduation, I wrote, "I've finally gotten my hair all one length."

I guess maybe that sounds kind of shallow to anyone who didn't go to the same school I did. Our seal read, "Doctrina lux mentis." We all thought that meant, 'Where appearances still count.'
It's just too hard to compete when you have overachieving friends like I do. In the past year, I've known people who've become doctors, finished a novel (written one, not read one), gone back to graduate school, created new life, ran the Boston Marathon, painted a few masterpieces, and written some songs that would break your heart.
It kinda puts this whole hair thing into (really unflattering) perspective.
So the new year dawns, and with 1995, comes an enormous amount of pressure for people like me who always need something to complain about. There's something about the whole concept of a clean slate that compels one to take stock (and in my case anyway) to resolve to do better this time out.
One thing I'd like to do is worry less about things that really don't matter or, more importantly, will never happen in a million years. Like, I can probably lay off wondering about what would happen if somebody decided to make a movie about my life. Not a documentary, mind you, but a major motion picture. That takes care of two of my big fears in life right there. 1. That I'll have no input on the soundtrack in this Hollywood blockbuster. For example, instead of Townes Van Zandt, Johnny Cash, or Junior Brown, what if they played that "Everybody Hurts" song by REM everytime something sad happened to me? And 2. This also means I can stop agaonizing over who they'd get to play my "love interest." Cause I just know we're not talking Tommy Lee Jones or Sam Shepard or Steve Martin. It'd probably be that obnoxious Ace Ventura pet detective guy.
I have this other mostly idle fear that somewhere locked inside my brain is the cure for cancer, but I've wasted the space on the lyrics to old Kansas songs, ("though my eyes could see I still was a blind man/ though my mind could think I still was a mad man/ I hear the voices when I'm dreaming.... I can hear them SAY...") I think I can give up on that too.
And if I was shooting for an emotionally healthy new year, I'd have to give up all the ill will I bear poor Martha Stewart.
I'm sure it's not her fault she's an obsessive compulsive Stepford wife. And I'm sure none of this is personal, in her mind.
Before she came along though, I used to think I gave a pretty decent party — everyone seemed to get enough to eat and drink and have someone to talk to. And then came Martha. At a casual get-together, she makes blinis to order, grows all the flowers for the centerpiece, and then sends everyone home with pine cones hand-dipped in gold she mined in the backyard.
Unable to compete, I stimply lowered my standards. Now I give parties where I'm just relieved when no one throws up in the ficus. And do you want to know how mean-spirited I am about all this? All I can think is, "well at least her husband left her."
In a world where Martha Stewarts are allowed to live, breathe, and proliferate, why even bother with something so provincial... so prosaic... as New Year's Resolutions?
So this year, I've decided not to make any — I'll just try to follow through on some of the ones that other people would choose for me, if they had a chance.
For example, my mom would probably like me to resolve to give up musicians and men who are too old for me. As a compromise, maybe I'll give up bass players who are too old for my mother?
At least one local band would probably like me to stop requesting "Pamela Brown!" every time they play. I'd be willing to compromise — maybe settle for the Budokan version.
My widely-revered miracle worker mechanic Lowell, would probably like me to bring my car in for service once in awhile  instead of just having it towed there everytime I run out of oil. (I don't understand why there isn't a flashing oil light in addition to a flashing low fuel light. The stakes seem so much higher.)  My office is only a block from his shop, but I'm not ready to make any rash promises just yet.
One thing's for sure though, I'm not going to cut my hair. This all-one-length thing may not mean much to the rest of the world, but at least I have priorities.