2012.  Week One.

My Jack demands we start our New Yearly Resolved running jag – I'm informed that empty promises are so 2011. Day One. I fishtail my soccer mom car into the loading zone in front of his apartment with seconds to spare and unfulfilled lazy Sunday morning bagel and lox fantasies.

He comes down the stairs with a shit-eating grin and loads a colorful bouquet of blown-up balloons (with perfectly curled streamers) into the back seat of soccer mom mobile. When I ask why the circus is in town, he changes the subject.

5.87 miles later. He's cheerily feeling just about warmed-up, I'm secretly miserable, and when he suggests we walk back to the car, I think I've been hand-picked from Jesus for my miracle. And if this is my one shot, I'll take it.

So we put the brakes on

He says to me :: “I'm the Vice President in charge of Your Happiness" and happiness training starts now. So, let's begin. Unpack your baggage and stay awhile.”

He proceeds to make me list (nearly alphabetically) all of the things I want to emotionally enema so that I can start the year drama-detoxed and kharmically cleansed.

We get to the car

I load-in my mud drunk dog and he loads-out the balloon fiesta. Sits me down on the nearest park bench and pulls out a razor-sharp Sharpie (knowing I think there's nothing more exciting in this world, than.. a razor-sharp Sharpie), asks me to write one thing I intend to let go of on each balloon (some of them, color-coded).

Then, one by one 10 rainbow balloons pierce the Colorado winter sky. And together we watch as Up, Up and Away go my woes.

And you know what? I actually feel lighter! No crutches, no anchors, no balls on a chain, no excuse to evite myself to a pity party for one.

Because no matter how many perfectly curled balloons strings I've got twisted in a bunch, I know that my Jack's got my back – he'll be there with bells and balloons.

And, I know this much to be true too :: that ain't something a straight man would do.