A Red Flag

I like to spend my time thinking up little ways to change my life. I do this for the benefit of my future self; I do this for kicks.  You speak to me, seriously, but still I sit here coming up with plans. Tomorrow will be different. I will be someone who speaks slowly, and wears barrettes. I will finish books in the bathroom, refrain from straightening bedsheets, use elbow grease when I've gone and burnt a pan. 

"You're a changed woman," you'll say. "And you did it just like that."

"Just like that," I'll respond.

In January, when we use two fingers to push the dimmer down on the kitchen lights, I'll read you my resolutions, written in pencil. 

"Leaving room for amendments?" is what you say.

"Leaving no room for mistakes" is what I say.

You pop a cork.  "Red flag, baby.  Red flag."