The Proverbial New Year's Resolution

The indefatigable Wowoo and I were having a chit-chat in our work stations (his desk is across mine) and we kinda got to exchanging bits about our weekend, with EJ nearby providing the occasional snicker, chuckle and witch's laugh.

I had quite some stuff to tell him about--what with the Friday afternoon Starbucks date I had with Jackie and Kim, the Friday night Margarita drinking binge (ok, just two glasses, lol) I had with my dear friend, Rowell, the Saturday night Serendra coffee session with Myts and the Northerners, and last night's family dinner at Rack's--so it was quite an animated conversation. We talked about John Travolta's sixteen-year-old son's recent death and the former's 5 private planes and very own airstrip (oh, the rich! the rich!), Tom Cruise and Scientology, and some stuff about Embassy and West Gate. Sunday is one of the worst days for working, and my team and I have to look for ways--different ways--to keep ourselves awake, and small talk is one of them.

As if that's something new.

Anyway.

Wowoo asked me what my New Year's resolution was--his was to eat at all the restaurants he hasn't eaten in, he said--and I told him that mine was to make it a point to count my blessings. He gave me a blank stare, like I was the most boring person on earth. "That's it? Count your blessings? But that's inane, so... so... do-able!" He looked at the new Charles and Keith pair I was wearing and, knowing my penchant for hoarding heeled footwear, suggested for me to make it my resolution to buy a pair of shoes in every mall that I go to. Oh, but I've done that lots of times, was he kidding?

Anyway, for the second time.

Counting one's blessings, though quite trite and insignificant for most, can be one of the toughest things to do. I certainly find it a challenging task to establish consistency on and although I know that it just might be the one cure for a pessimistic, depressive worry-wart like me, knowing alone isn't enough. But it does help to be aware, to recognize that one is fortunate to have the things that one has, to be with the people that one loves, to have a roof over one's head, to not worry about what to buy one's dinner with, to be up and about and not strapped to a hospital bed and depend on a respirator for survival. You know, things like that, things like the fifty-peso bill in one's wallet, or the healthy little daughter waiting for one to come home.

I, of course, did not voice all that out. For fear of being accused of being cheezy and sentimental, I kept mum about it, and said, instead, "how about this one, I could make it my goal to try all the cocktail drinks in the book. Won't that be neat?"

It elicited a grin and a "that's more like it."

I hate beer. I always have.