Ho, ho, ho, he says with a twinkle and a cute little shrug of his belly, why don’t you have another chocolate? After all, he chortles, chocolate is high in anti-oxidants.

Ho, ho, ho, he says shifting his belt to the last notch, it’s the Christmas season, everyone’s drinking rum-laced nog.

Ho, ho, ho, he says. Even bears need an extra layer during these dark and chilly days. Snuggle into the sofa, keep those stretchy sweatpants on, hey, why don’t you have another slab of shortbread?

Ho, ho, ho, he says. Why bother calling it Christmas if you don’t start your morning with a full pour of Bailey’s Irish Cream in your coffee?

And who, you might ask, is the guy whispering all these ho-ho’s of hooey in my ear?

Give me an ’S’!  Give me an ‘A’!  Give me a ’N’!  Give me a ’T’!  And another ‘A’!

What do all those letters spell?

SATAN: Get thee behind me you short-bread doling, Bailey’s-pouring, nog-imbibing, red-velour-wearing fat man with the fake beard!

OK. I don’t really think Santa is evil. I enjoy the decadence of the holiday season as much as the next gal. It seems fitting that during the darkest days of the year, we celebrate with gluttony and sloth. But by the time these last days roll around (and I really do mean roll), I am quite ready to clear the decks.

I want the extra clutter of Christmas out of our apartment, I want the bows and tinsel and knick-knacky bits to get stuffed in a box for another year. But mostly, I want the extra five pounds of gravy, butter, chocolates, cookies, perogies, ham and yams that Santa slathered on my belly to go along with it.

I am quite sure that the whole New Year’s Resolution tradition was borne directly from this state of gravy-sucking over-indulgence.

And although I am truly thankful for all the feasting I’ve enjoyed, I am so, so ready for a fresh start.

This morning I had oatmeal with dried wild blueberries and a scattering of almonds for breakfast. I went for a big sweaty walk. I eschewed the Bailey’s option in my cappuccino.  There will be no new fad diet, no potatoe-soup saviours, no wheatgrass wonders, I will simply go back to eating and exercising like a normal person again.

I tell you, I’m feeling the possibilities already…

But first there’s the seven-course New Year’s Eve dinner to get through. And no, I’m not complaining about that coming debaucle. Wait. I know! I’ll try to be ever-so dainty in my approach to the perfect wine pairings and the long night of eating…

Then again? Best to have something to work with.

Besides, it’s not quite 2015 yet.

Ho Freaking Ho.