The new year, 2017, soon will be here, and so will I. I’ll be pondering the kind of New Year’s Resolution to try this time. One of them is to work on my second million dollars. I say it’s my SECOND million because I gave up on my attempt for the first million.

Do people even make resolutions anymore? It seems that some 20 or 30 years ago, such promises probably pre-occupied people. In much earlier installments of this column I’ve tried, albeit briefly and perhaps even half-heartedly, to choose one resolution and stick to it.

Some readers may remember that I published my weight each week for a couple of years. I urged readers to “keep me honest” and never to fear embarrassing me when discussing weighty issues. My promise then, and now, has been to report my weight honestly.

I began publishing my weight underneath my name at 234. What? I weighed that much?

During my teaching years, I hovered around 185. Suddenly, as I drew closer to retirement I tipped the scales at close to 200 pounds. It’s amazing how much difference a pound makes. As I stepped on to my very accurate scale at home, the night before, I weighed 199. The next morning — without my knowledge or consent — I’d reached the Big 200.

That threw me into a panic, and I made an appointment with the local Diet Center for help with this uphill battle. I worked myself down to 159 — but I never saw that figure again.

Here I’ll suspend my weighty tale, except to report I obviously fell off the wagon. And over five to 10 years, I reached the unenviable 234 figure, above. Several readers often commented on my “progress,” usually to remind me that I hadn’t lost a single pound in a month. I replied that 234 was indeed unsafe for a medium-framed man who’s only 5-foot-8 inches tall.

One week the number beneath my byline went missing. My boss at the time, Tom McDonald, removed the weight reference for the same reason: “You’ve been locked into this weight for several weeks.

Now, with the dawning of a new year, 2017, I’ll try it again. I’ll enter my weight in the next column, during the New Year, and unless my current boss, Martin Salazar, deletes it, perhaps for the same reason McDonald did years ago, you’ll learn the hideous, yet unvarnished truth about my struggles.

I ask that readers feel free to ask how I’m doing, to chide me as I attempt to swallow my third piece of German chocolate cake and to encourage me to take a few laps either on the walking track inside Wilson Complex, or outside, at Perkins Stadium.

You won’t offend me. And yes, I’ve heard most of the comments and jokes about people in my situation when they ask, “Hey, Art, you want to lose 30 pounds of ugly fat in a hurry? Chop off your head.”

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Back in the days when the FCC banned cigarette commercials from the airwaves, there was an advertisement for Winston cigarettes. It went, “Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should.” With that, every English teacher on the planet rose up and protested: “What’s the idea of butchering the language? It should be, ‘Winston takes good, AS a cigarette should.'”

Well, the folks who manufactured those cigarettes came up with yet another commercial, keeping the grammatical error but prefacing it with “What do you want? Good grammar or good taste?” We English teachers, I guess, hadn’t realized that good grammar and good taste are not mutually exclusive. Why can’t BOTH the taste AND the grammar be good?

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I joined a friend at a local restaurant for coffee one morning last week. I entered the restaurant long after my friend had been served.

This has happened many times, and I assume this particular restaurant is accustomed to writing a tab for latecomers who join already-served customers.

What happened next surprised me. The waitperson asked me, “What do you want?” The wording of the question puzzled me. On the one hand, it could have been an honest question as to what I wanted to order.

But the question, “What do you want?” as opposed to “May I help you?” for me carries quite a different connotation. I didn’t hint, imply, or use a facial expression that would express my disapproval over her choice of words. But yet, I believe people are more likely to construe the waitperson’s word choice as bordering on the confrontational, as if I’d picked a quarrel.

I’ve mulled this issue for several days, probably giving it more mileage than necessary. On hearing the waitperson’s question, I likened it to the tone some people use to silence someone who pesters.

The tone and the words themselves indicated to me that my late arrival perhaps was not welcomed.

Am I too sensitive? Readers, let me know.

• • •

Last week’s pre-Christmas column suggested that in addition to Dasher and Dancer, et al, the standard eight reindeer who helped Santa, there was also Rudolph, making the total nine.
Then I mentioned there is yet one more reindeer, making 10. Local resident Bonnie Bolton wrote to explain there are only nine reindeer.

I stressed that there were in fact 10. You see, people often overlook “Olive,” “the OTHER reindeer, who “used to laugh and call him names.”

And finally, why do children who hear the Christmas story often imagine that the three wise men wore insulated coats, rubber boots and carried axes while tugging a long hose?

Think you know the answer? Then email it to the address at the end of this column.