Gabe and I were enjoying a friendly round of cribbage this morning when Madam pulled up a chair and sighed.
“It’s time for some resolutions,” she muttered.
“You’re late,” replied Gabe without looking up. He continued to deal me a new hand. “We celebrated the new year three months ago,” he added. “Besides that, we horses are kind of averse to a bunch of tedious rules that begin with no.”
”Perhaps you should be conducting this conversation with Henri le Chat Noire,” I offered delicately. “Now there’s a cat who has parlayed tedium and ennui into a fine career.”
“No, no, that’s not it,” exclaimed Madam. “I’m talking about my wardrobe, and my weight,” she snorted. “And what about this hairdo that just spent a long winter under a Carhartt hat? Good grief, if we intend to go to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop next month, I’ll need a serious fashion tune-up,” she groaned.
She made a good point.
“And how would you like to begin your trend-setting makeover?” I asked this woman who still operates a 1975 Lady Kenmore washer and dryer.
“That’s why I’m here,” she retorted, “I need your advice.”
Gabe folded his cards and waited for something brilliant to spring from my lips.
“… Um, maybe we should add a cheery twist to this plan of yours,” I proposed.
She surveyed the filthy Muck Boots on her feet and shot me a disbelieving glance.
“Let’s plan that Happiness Project we’ve been talking about for months,” I offered. “It calls for resolutions of a more pleasant nature. So, for example, you could whip up a slimming kale smoothie, while I enter my 24 Karat Cake in the Pillsbury Bakeoff. We’ll call it a Spread the Joy resolution.”
Gabe rolled his eyes and began perusing his Wall Street Journal
“Next, you might consider donating all those stylish sweat pants of yours, and I’ll dump my Rambo blanket that Patrick shredded,” I soldiered on. “That sounds like a Lighten Up resolution to me.“
She was beginning to catch my drift.
So there I stood on the threshold of April Fools Day, fielding Madam’s style worries. It’s true I’ve morphed from a first class racehorse to a life coach for a woman of a certain age – traded glamor and speed for a role of attentive husband or hairdresser. Yet, as good as I’m getting at this tony tutoring business, even I will never convince Madam to take her spurs off before grocery shopping.