Three years ago I decided New Year’s resolutions weren’t my style. Making a plan to give things up tends to make me cling more tightly. (I will NEVER break up with you, Cheetos! I can’t quit you, beer!) Going the traditional resolution route — swearing to suddenly introduce sweeping changes for good — well, that caused performance anxiety so intense I’d give up before trying.

New Year’s resolutions are binding contracts with yourselfBut I’m not gonna magically wake up on New Year’s Day and be a gym rat. (Because that’s the day I spend with my head in the toilet or slumped in a diner booth nursing a bloody mary.) So I decided to use the turn of the calendar as an opportunity to attempt something I’d never done before, something I could accomplish in a single evening, something silly and fun and the better part of legal. Thus was born The New Year’s Stunt.

The first year, I “resolved” to kiss a man with a giant, bushy Civil War-style beard. I’d never done it, I’d always wanted to, and by gum, I was gonna try it. Year two, I opted to flash the tatas. (No, I haven’t been to Mardi Gras and no, I didn’t get any beads but this goody-two-shoes found being slightly deviant a little exhilarating.) This year, it’s gonna be old-school, it’s gonna be “Old School,” and it’s gonna be streaking.

That’s right, tennis shoes on, jogging past the KFC, towards the quad, into the gymnasium. Everybody’s doing it.

I’m doing it because it sounds terrifying. Not just because it’s freezing out lately, but because I’m worried that without my underwear holding everything in place, all my wobbly bits will wobble and somebody might see.

I know, it can be mind-numbing to listen to women carry on about their terrible body images. I hear myself whining about my J-Lo ass, or my celluleetees (the far cuter Argentinian pronunciation), or the jowls I seem to be inheriting from my grandmother, but the fact is, I’m not Jabba the Hut; I’m just somewhere between Photoshopped and 40.

Ladies, we need to make better friends with our bodies. I’m not gonna blow smoke up your ass and tell you to call your stretch marks “tiger stripes,” or that the rolls on your body just make you look like a stack of silver dollar pancakes from the side. I will tell you to give yourself a damn break already. Let’s skip all this body image bullshit and try feeling happy for what we have while we have it. Let’s be glad to have bodies that work. And let’s get out of our heads and out of our own ways and focus on something that matters.

To seal that lesson in for myself, I’m going streaking. I’m gonna be glad I can run as fast as I can, because I will want to. I’m gonna be glad I’m doing this now instead of when I’m 100. (We’ll see how well the meds work at the old-folks home.) And I’m gonna be glad to be out of my head for a bit; worrying about slipping on black ice with no pants on is better than worrying about other people’s opinions of my nekkid arse.

So yeah, I’m going streaking. Through the quad, into the gymnasium. I’ll let you know how it goes.