Resolving to wear pants

I don’t really do formal New Years resolutions. I don’t believe making hard and fast rules really works for anyone. “I will lose 50 pounds this year” “I’m going to quit drinking” “I’m going to get out of debt” are so absolute. “I will keep my house clean” “I will blog every day” might work for a couple weeks — a couple months if you’re really diligent. But really, it just sets you up for failure. And I hate failure. I really really do. Actually, this year I resolve not to fail at all. No failing, period. The end.

Right.

I’m much better at small, incremental changes. They may sound silly or insignificant, but  generally they have larger reverberations.

This year, I’m going to try to wear pants.

Real pants.

Real pants on the weekend and after work.

Okay, what I really mean is I am going to try to get in the habit of waking up on the weekend, taking a shower and putting on real clothes. Even if I have zero plans for the day. Schmooping around in pajama pants all day long is fine if you’re hungover or sick or whatever.

But there’s no excuse for acting and dressing like a sad sack all the time.

Ultimately it’s a self respect thing. Get your ass out of bed, be a grown up and put on a pair of pants.

Be ready to greet the world when it knocks on the door, rather than scrambling around trying not to look like a schlub who hasn’t showered in the past week.

So today? I have no plans to leave Danielle’s cottage. I’m not wearing any makeup and am hardly ready for any impromptu photo shoots, but I’m wearing pants. And even a cardigan.

And I don’t feel like a total bum.