In four days, it will be the first. Today is Friday, the twenty-eighth of May — Tuesday will be Tuesday, the first day of June. Almost halfway through the year. Five months in, in four days. I’ve managed to fail at my New Year’s resolutions — the fraction I even managed to start. But if I start now, I can turn it around before mid-year.
In four days, I will be perfect. Starting then. Tuesday will be a perfect day. Tuesday, I will be my best self.
I will awaken fully rested after a slumber of prophetic dreams; I will make love to my wife — passionately, expertly — who will thank me for the righteous railing by cooking us a breakfast of buckwheat pancakes, which are not only trending on Instagram but truly are more delicious, and good for one’s bowel and chakra alignments.
As I leave for work my cell phone will ring. The voice on the line will be direct: “We’re sorry, Derek, but the office has burned down. No one was hurt, thank god, but there’s no need to come in for at least a few weeks. You’ll be paid of course, but no, please don’t come in and there’s nothing you can do to help, and you’ve already done so much for the company this year, between your extreme handsomeness and competency.”
“Okay,” I’ll tell the office manager, “right back at you.”
I’ll text my wife that I’m headed to the coffee shop for a latte then a matinée, as I know she’ll be drifting into a morning nap after our herculean hornication session. “Uh huh, uhz, luvz…” she’ll whimper as she sets down her phone. Meanwhile our cats will gesticulate between themselves, negotiating who will sleep atop her perfectly tousled hair.
On the way to the coffee shop, my mother will call me and compliment me for being such a thoughtful son, for omitting to call her on Mother’s Day and so not reminding her of the painful labor she endured while birthing my sister, who she will spontaneously exclaim is the inferior child in comparison to me. I will defend my sister as a point of sibling honor, but in my heart I’ll know my mother’s disparaging words about my sister’s numerous faults are accurate and said without malice.
Inside the coffee shop, I will be scouted as a runway model and signed for a five-year modeling-slash-book deal with the new Ford Models/Picador Books conglomerate.
The head barista, the famous artist Jeff Koons, will hand me an adroitly prepared hazelnut latte crafted by a troupe of artisanal assistant baristas. A perfect representation of a puppy will be swirled into the frothed milk, looking up at me lovingly, quietly, as all the best dogs do. I’ll snap a cellphone photograph of the latte and auction the photograph instantly on a non-fungible token online gallery, while I’m still standing at the counter. The Bitcoin payment will arrive a heartbeat later, minting me a new billionaire. I will not tip Jeff Koons, for he is a pompous ass.
I’ll call my newly-signed agent and retire from modeling-slash-writing, because as a billionaire, who needs to work? I’ll call the office manager and retire from engineering, which has been my day job for years, and is my day job still, today — for four more days anyway.
But next Tuesday, in four days, will be perfect. I will restart my New Year’s resolutions as effortlessly as I lift heavy boulders, as easily as I leap over speeding locomotives.
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