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By Tom Anselm

So how are you doing with those New Year’s resolutions? I resolved not to make any resolutions, and I haven’t broken it yet. Old joke, I know, but still a good one. Along with resolutions, people who are facing their own mortality have had a tendency in recent years to write a “bucket list”, you know, stuff you must do before you kick that old container.

On the flip side, there’s this Zen guy who says we shouldn’t make goals or resolutions or lists of things we must do. Just live in the moment. Which is good for the stress levels, I guess, but that guy probably doesn’t get much laundry done. As I watch the calendar turn to 2012, I’m right at the 63 mark. Given the American male life expectancy, that puts me good for at least another decade and some change.

So I have used up some precious brain cells here to compile my “Anti- Bucket List”, made up of “Things I’ll Never Do.” Number One: Fly to Europe. Unless they invent a way to teleport me a’la Star Trek, it’s just not gonna happen. I can barely make it to Chicago on I-55, and that’s with two stops for stretching. Yeah, I know about Ambien and all that. But just the thought of being five miles in the air over a very deep bunch of water for 8 hours starts my little tummy to roll. So sorry visits to the Vatican.

Florida and California and New York, no problem. Just keep me where the prospects of an emergency landing don’t include using my seat cushion as a flotation device. Yeah, like that would work.

Number Two: Bungee Jumping. Are you kidding me? I nearly croaked a few years ago shooting down a water slide at Disney World. So, no way on this inexplicable activity. It’s enough for me to just jump out of a golf cart.

Number Three: Learn to play a musical instrument. I’ve had an acoustic guitar for over 30 years and the best I can do is about 20 chords. I also have my Marine Band harmonica, worth maybe a couple dozen songs. But what I don’t have is that little thing called talent. I’ll keep strumming chords and tooting on the mouth harp, but only for private consumption. Or when the grandkids come over and want to slobber all over it with their renditions. The harmonica, not the guitar.

Number Four: Play at the Masters in Augusta, Georgia. No, not play in the Masters. To do that you have to be a really good golfer. And to just play at the course, you have to be really rich or really famous. Really.  None of which I am. Besides, I bet they don’t allow golf carts or just playing 9 holes, which are the hallmarks of my game. So, yeah, no green jacket for  me.

Number Five: Water ski. Much to the lovely brides delight, this is the one sport that she beats me at. Unless you count ice skating. She is good at both, and I could never come out of the crouch to ski. Of course, I only tried it that once, but that was enough. And skating? Bad ankle equals lots of ice time… on my rear.

Number Six: Write the next Great American Novel. I tried. Twice. Random House wasn’t interested, along with about 50 other publishers. So I self-published one, and the other sits quietly in my documents file. Columns are easier. Brief, concise. Short stories, poems and songs are fun. Just no more novels.  But hey, maybe I can pen a screenplay of my book, add a few middle-school vampires, a time-traveling principal, center it around a school choir, throw in math-savant kid.

Number Seven: Flip my hair out of my eyes. This fuzzy headed kid has longed to do this since childhood. Today, the old forehead is at least a “fivehead”. Maybe in my next life.

And finally, Number Eight: Break 80 at Eagle Springs. Sorry for all the golf references. It’s the only sport I can come close to playing with any success. Anyway,  I’m revising this goal to something achievable. My new plan is to have no plan. Just have fun, hit good shots, enjoy the sun. Remember that Zen guy? So that’s about it. Make them Bucket Lists if you dare. I just can’t handle the pressure.