A Better Life--One Resolution at a Time

Who would have believed it if they hadn’t read it right here in the newspaper?

Last week, the Los Angeles City Council voted unanimously--again--to make L.A. a “racism-free city.” They’d done the same thing in 1993.

My first thought--go ahead, arrest me for unreconstructed cynicism and throw away the key--was this: Los Angeles has as good a chance of becoming officially racism-free as Michael Milken does of having a local Jewish high school named after him.

As if!

Seriously, though, there was something moving--if quixotic--about the City Council’s action.

We are, after all, a city that has been rent by the effects of racism. We know the evil it does, we know the ways it expresses itself, we know how it wounds, how it kills.

And even as we know in our hearts that racism will never be eradicated, we can at least remind ourselves--as many times as it takes, I guess--that it is not to be tolerated. A resolution condemning racism is the moral equivalent of telling a bigot to stuff it. It may not change anyone, but at least you’ve taken a stand.

The council has directed that the resolution be sent to every city department and commission, so while it may be toothless, at least it’s got a bark.

I, for one, applaud our City Council for this inspiring gesture. It has moved me to fight--by fiat--the evils in my own life.

*

This week, on a series of one-to-nothing votes, I passed several resolutions aimed at making my life a better place to be.

I realize that my life will never be perfect--I will, for instance, never be a child prodigy, nor a Victoria’s Secret cover girl. To my chagrin, it does not appear that I will be credited with finding a cure for cancer. But there are many small areas that can be legislatively improved.

Be it therefore resolved that:

* My weight will henceforth, without exception, be in the svelte to curvaceous range. From now on, I will require clothes no larger than Size 10s, preferably Size 8s. I will positively swim in Size 12s. The adjectives pudgy , porky and stout may never be used to describe me. Ditto zaftig , cubic and rotund . No one will ever again ask me “How far along are you?” even when I wear that loose cotton dress with the high waistline.

* My hair will cease its relentless evolution from brown to gray. Also, it will stop falling out, and is to become thick and luxuriant, eliciting approving murmurs from stylists, who are now prohibited from touching it, making ugly faces and sneering: “Who cuts your hair?”

* My husband will worship and adore me no matter what time of month it is. He will fetch me coffee each morning in a show of love and will never, ever accuse me of interrupting him. He will be eternally amazed by my beauty, charm and talents, and will wonder what in God’s name he ever saw in Daryl Hannah.

* My editor will laugh hysterically at the columns I intend to be funny, and weep at those intended to evoke sorrow. She will understand why a talent this big cannot be circumscribed by such petty and artificial constraints as daily deadlines. She will stop trying to insert the word but at the beginning of sentences that do not transition well from previous paragraphs.

* But. My day will now include 32 hours, instead of the standard 24. My pay will increase accordingly.

* Readers will find it difficult to begin their Wednesdays and Sundays without me. They will scratch their heads and marvel that I have been able to elucidate their inner lives so clearly, when they have been at such a loss to do so themselves.

They will wonder how they ever mistook me for a man-hating, talent-free kook. They will want to know who cuts my hair.

*

I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.