We’re already over a week into 2011 and I’m feeling bad about not having made my New Year’s resolutions. Guess I’ll have to save “live without regrets” and “stop procrastinating” for next year. I’ve never been a fan of resolutions. Probably because I’ve never kept a single one. Plus, I really like my life. I’m happy, healthy and loved. What’s to change? Of course, there are a few things on my wish list. I’d like to own chickens, get Trader Joe’s to move into town and have my daughter grow up to be a top-notch volleyball player. While decent dreams, these are not resolution quality.

My initial attempt at a resolution was a vague claim “to do better.” I liked it. I meant it. I really would like to “do better” in all facets of my life. Run better, write better, parent better . . . but then some annoying “Today Show” correspondent pointed out how a resolution, like any goal, should be specific and measurable. After a week of “doing better,” I realized that what I had actually done was “as good as I possibly could.” And really, shouldn’t that be good enough?

I entertained a few other more specific resolutions. I could stop nagging my husband, but I’m not sure I’d know how to initiate a conversation without it (I could come up with a million resolutions for him–oh wait, that’s nagging . . .). I could drink (just a little bit) less. But let’s be serious. Or maybe I could make this the year that I use my PedEgg on a weekly basis. However, my feet are so far away, it’s hard to even remember they’re there, let alone try to pull them up to my chin and drag a cheese grater over them. Besides, my life requires flexibility. I need to be able to make a u-turn (i.e. quit/give up/move on) without feeling like I’ve failed. Resolutions are just too, well, resolute.

Nonetheless I couldn’t go another day without the pressure of a resolution looming over me. Surely, I could come up with one doable task. So after much soul-searching I’ve finally determined something that I’m resolved to do. It meets the criteria of specific and measurable. It won’t feed the hungry or bring water to where there is drought. In fact, it’s completely selfish and superficial, which in the life of a modern mom is delightfully refreshing.

I am going to take extra care of me. Not “me” in the sense of my soul. I mean the exterior me. The me you see. I’m taking a three-pronged approach (see the specificity?!). I am going to give special, weekly attention to my hair; daily attention to those deep lines around my eyes that have me thinking I’m part tiger; and hourly attention to my hands that were once plump with youthful collagen, but now look like the skin of a dehydrated reptile.

The hair part has been pretty easy. I can’t afford to get it cut, so I’ve been telling people that I’m growing it out. All the celebrities are doing it with extensions, but I’m growing the real thing. I’m already too lazy to wash it daily (okay, bi-weekly), which I’ve learned is a good thing. The last time I did, my husband asked, “Is it January already?” So the hair is in check. The face lines, unlike my calloused feet, are right there in front of me. Every morning they soak up half of my foundation into their deep crevasses. So I keep a tube of eye gel handy. I haven’t noticed any difference yet, but these things take time. The hand hydration has been a no-brainer. When you see a fire, you put it out. The hands are no different. When they’re all cracked, red and hot–you notice. And extinguish with lotion as necessary.

At night, when I survey the landscape of my upper body, I’m pleased. My hands are soft, my crows feet are moisturized, and my hair stinks with the promise of health. I can’t even wait to welcome 2012 as a new woman. I doubt you’ll even recognize me.