I’ve got one New Year’s resolution, and it’s out of my wife’s playbook of life: 

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Sounds simple, doesn’t it? A lot easier than swearing to lose 30 pounds, promising not to use that second credit card, or to stop cursing at the television when watching the Mets.

Given the big obstacles in our daily life – money, job, family – deciding not to sweat the small stuff makes sense.

Yeah, but here’s the tricky part: What constitutes the small stuff? Aha.

That’s where my wife and I differ, and why this resolution makes the yearly pledge to diet a piece of cake.

Bad choice of words.

For example, I’ve never considered being punctual to be among the small stuff. Just the opposite.

To me, being on time says that you respect somebody else’s time. It’s one of society’s iron-clad verbal agreements for which there is no compromise. “I’ll be there by 8” means just that. By 8.  Maybe closer to 7:50. Never 8:30.

Bonnie has a different interpretation of being on time. Basically, you’re never really late. Instead of being set in stone, with her, it’s more like a work in progress. With lots of wiggle room. On time? How about flex time.

Need to be somewhere at 1? She’s ready by 1:30, and we arrive at 2. Maybe 2:25. I say we’re late. Real late.

She says we’re still in the afternoon time block.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. 

Like having enough gas.

What I know about a car you can fit in a glove compartment and still have room for the gloves. But I know a car won’t run without gas. My wife knows this as well.

She also knows she gets cold, and her gloves smell like gas when she gets out and pumps – so whenever possible, she avoids it, and waits for when I drive her car. Is this a problem? Only if she doesn’t leave me with enough gas to drive from our house to a gas station. Which you’d think is just about impossible these days, with cars having numerous lights to warn you when you’re far from empty, close to empty and at empty. If you're near empty, the little fuel pump icon turns beet red, as if you’ve reached the boiling point at a nuclear plant. It means you need gas. And there’s a digital reading that counts down how many miles before you are on empty. The only reminder left would be for some inflatable device to shoot out of the dashboard, smack you on the side of the head, and yell, “Hey idiot, you’re out of gas!”

Don’t sweat the small stuff.

Not long ago, we had an appointment at 3:30. It would take us half an hour to get there. Simple math, right? We didn’t get into the car until after 3. To Bonnie, this means early.

As I started to pull out of the garage, I noticed the tiny fuel icon had reached a shade of red reserved for when the sun explodes. The digital fuel gauge said 4 miles before the tank is empty. The nearest gas station from our home is 4 miles away. My wife seemed surprised.

One mile into our ride, the gauge said we had 2 miles before empty.

I slowed down to 25 mph and put on our flashers. I was turning redder than that fuel icon, which had now been replaced by a smiling face laughing at me. 

A mile from the station, the car said we were out of gas. I prayed to all the gods. 

We coasted on fumes and wind to the gas pump. And we made our appointment by 3:30.

When we arrived, I had lost 3 pounds’ worth of sweat and my appetite for the next 12 hours.

Bonnie said I need to relax.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Happy New Year!