Man meets woman.  Man and woman fall in love.  Man and woman live happily ever after.  Since the dawn of time, this very premise has been the seemingly endless merry-go-round we have all be spinning around on.  As children we gather together, hoping and praying that Cinderella’s glass slipper will be returned to its rightful owner.  As adolescents we hold our breath in reading the final scenes from Romeo and Juliet.  As adults… Well, we tend to be a little jaded.

By the time our mid-twenties roll around we have already come to the unfortunate discovery that the things we grew up believing are, in fact, quite different in reality.   We begin to realize that the premise of man-meets-woman is, actually, far more complicated than one would have thought.  It isn’t as easy as 1+1=2.  The mathematics of love and romance don’t often make sense and sometimes we end up losing more than we gained.  We gamble in love, the stakes are raised, and each time the heart is put on the table, we risk the other person folding.  Even though the threat of a heart-breaking-gut-wrenching-cry-your-eyes-out kind of breakup will always linger in the backdrop, this, to me, seems like a better alternative than to live a lifetime alone, to awake each morning in a bed that is still half-perfectly made.  Life seems somewhat meaningless unless snide comments can be made about the toilet seat being left in the upright position!

The images we were plagued with as youngsters have left us very confused as adults (not to mention, borderline hyperglycemic).  In all of my thirty years, I have not yet been rescued by a gallant man, who is not only beautiful and riding, but of course, a white stallion, but who has also befriended a colony of woodland creatures.  Instead, I have seen various sized men who drive import cars and have buddies who talk sprockets, gears and games.

While I may never wear a glass slipper upon my foot, I know I will be alright.  Besides, glass is so 16th century!

Walking the ice-covered streets this frigid morning, afraid a single misstep would result in a Chaplin-esque tumble to the pavement, it occurred to me – we are only in our first month of winter.  And, try as I might to be the eternal optimist, I fear, come February 2nd, the famous furry rodent will deliver grim news: six more weeks before warmer days are on the horizon.

I now understand the whole fly-south-for-the-winter-thing, I would make the trek too if I were a bird.  Just think of it, free round-trip airfare without the concern of a canceled flight or loss of luggage – brilliant, I say!

Without a pair of wings of my own to whisk me away to a sandy-beached-blue-skied destination, I find myself searching continuously for a warm place to escape to, somewhere to defrost and melt away the cynicism that the minus temperatures have brought on.

Weighing the pros and cons of waiting out the winter in misery or making my way to a tropical locale, I have come to the conclusion that while I would gladly trade snowmen for sandcastles, mugs of hot chocolate for slushy beverages in hollowed-out coconuts, frozen pine trees for towering palms, there is one great thing about winter:  it’s not swimsuit season!

Resolution often means re-invention – of one’s internal or external self.  Perhaps even both.  We wait 365 days to decide to take it upon ourselves to do better, to be better.  The arrival of January 1st causes a stir within each of us, we gather in groups with funky hats and obnoxious noise-makers to bid farewell to the passing year and to welcome the birth of a new calendar, but more than that, we are stepping into a hopeful future where we can showcase our new selves — the happier, healthier person we are each wanting to become.

I have often found resolutions to have the life expectancy of an already-bruised banana.  You know it’s only a matter of days before the whole thing is turning into a mushy mess, saturated with pesky fruit-flies.  But, that same girl with that sordid mental image of what it means to make a resolution went and made one this year – half in jest, half in… OK, all in jest, really.  What did I resolve?  To give up something near and dear to me: bacon!

I am quite certain my arteries are already planning a huge celebration (complete with an enthusiastic parade of pumping blood)  at my mere mention of no longer having to process the nutrition-deficient deliciousness that this pork-product is.  And, while a part of me has come to terms with the bacon-free Melissa, my taste buds will never.

So long, dear friend… you will be missed.