I’ve been reflecting on the nature of resolutions lately and the fact that most of us don’t keep ours (and yet continue to make them every year in a baffling display of optimism), and something occurred to me. I realized that the majority of changes I’ve made in my life have nothing to do with resolutions or a date on the calendar.

See, I set goals for myself all. the. time. Eat more vegetables. Exercise more. Organize my pantry. Plan meals before going to the grocery store. Get up early. Floss my teeth. Watch less TV (as if!). And more often than not, I decide to start pursuing these goals next week, next month, next year.

So often when I set goals for myself, make resolutions to change or improve, it’s all about the next. I get wrapped up in the planning and the dreaming and the I’m-gonna-do-it-this-time-no-really-I-am, and I forget to actually start.

I say, “I’ll start on Monday,” but somehow, Monday never comes.

Let’s talk about Mondays. Join me for the rest of this post at (in)courage?

Saying goodbye to summer is never hard for me. After all, the advent of fall weather means I can put away my capri pants, flip flops and [let's be honest] my razor. And it means I can pull out my comfiest sweaters and favorite jeans. That, of course, can be good and bad.

The bad part of jeans weather reared its ugly head last week. No pun intended.

Though I had “buy new jeans” on my to-do list (along with “balance checkbook,” “trim nails” and “organize scrapbooking stuff”), I hadn’t gotten around to it. Instead, I was making do with two pairs of jeans (neither of which fit well), my weekly wardrobe depending on a precarious schedule of washing, drying and repeated wearing.

I woke up on a Tuesday morning, grabbed the jeans draped over the foot of my bed and pulled them on. I’d worn them the day before as I ran errands, attended a meeting and laughed with friends over a Chinese dinner. So imagine my surprise when I smoothed my shirt down around my hips and discovered A HUGE HOLE IN THE BACK OF MY JEANS!

I wore those jeans. In public. All day long. And nobody said a word.

To read the rest of this story (How could you resist?!), visit me at (in)courage.

I already told you that my daughter loves One Direction’s song, What Makes You Beautiful. Now I have another confession.

And it’s an embarrassing one.

But I’m going to tell you anyway.

I love that bubble-gum song by the silly boy band, too. And when I say I love it, I don’t just mean I think it’s catchy and will hum along should it happen to come on the radio. Oh no. I mean that I will search it out on the radio, crank it up and sing along as loudly as my far-from-teenaged lungs can manage. I mean that I have been driven to defend it to my friends who point out (and rightfully so, I suppose) that I am about 20 years past that band’s target audience, and don’t I feel just a little ridiculous?

Yeah, I really love it.

Why? Why am I obsessed with such a fan of this silly song? Is it that the first notes of the song (and the video, if you must know) echo the song Summer Nights from Grease, one of my favorite musicals/chick flicks/movies ever? Is it that I admire the songwriter’s audacity to consider rhyming “make-up” and “cover up” acceptable? Is it that I simply love the floppy hair and sweet harmonies of British boy bands?

Um, no. (Although, I’m not going to start lying now. I do love every single one of those things.)

I love this song because it says the words I long to hear.

To read the rest of this post, please visit me over at (in)courage.