Resolutions are stupid, nothing more than an excuse for me to flippantly amble through the last weeks of the year waiting for Dick Clark to announce it’s time for the newest version of my half-hearted attempt at self-betterment.

If there is any moxie mixed with my red-blood cells, I’d make the call on June 19 to rectify an aspect of my existence, or July 12, August 29 — whenever it becomes evident I’m even more flawed than I should be.

This year a slight moment of clarity came while pensively wandering through Bass Pro Shops for a $6 item I ended up buying at Delta Bait and Tackle. I decided I had a bit of a problem with gear.

I bought too much.

Sure, I needed the kit to fix my trout pole, but it was the idea of spending this money on the No. 3 rod in my rotation that vexed me.

I resolved to not buy gear I don’t need.

So effective was that moment (once I took the receipt and said thank you) — no more gear. Fortitude in this matter could not have been timelier, as I would have otherwise been a week into the 10-day waiting period before I picked up a small armament.

The pre-resolution binge would have been counter-productive, though I would be seriously packing.

The .44-caliber pistol still cries out, even now as I sit miles away from the show case. My buddy and I fired his 12-inch barreled hand cannon this summer at the shooting range (an old rock pit) back home.

Tearing up a shooting target meant for a .270 with .44-calibers of high-speed violence is a special feeling.

Justin took it fishing too. This guy has been on more sinking boats than Jack Sparrow, and yet the thought of a black bear is what really puts his nerves on the fritz.

He feels more comfortable armed. A picture of the foot-long barrel tracing his right leg, 12-inch filet knife on the other hip, and a bait-sized Dolly Varden trout on the end of his hook is one of my favorite images of the summer.

So safety justifies the purchase, right?

Plus, I can get Bass Pro Points, or put it on the Cabela’s Club to earn something later, perfect.

Good thing I still communicate with my inner 10-year old.

Tossing rocks, shouting insults and, “Bang” in the direction of the carnivore was all the protection I used to need, and

if I am really concerned with getting what I deserve when it comes to the animal world, $900 of firearm won’t cover what I’ve got coming to me.

Wouldn’t you know it, once I finished talking to myself and shot the tube on, a dude from Versus country said I should buy new gear, because its an investment, and there is a lot of good gear out there.
I laughed.

I’m sure those were the sentiments of dudes lobbing musket balls at injured bears back before turkeys came frozen and stuffed with pre-made gravy packets. If anyone needed scent-locking layers it was those guys that were forced to hunt food and dates without the benefits of Axe body spray or Crest Pro Health.

Terrifying just to think of such a caveman-type existence, isn’t it?

So a week into my anti-new-gear life, I’m hanging in there. An 870 Express, .44 Magnum, and new concealment gear are unneeded, and thus, I shall not purchase.

No more new gear, or gats.

Save money.

On Tuesday, I bought a 7.7 cubic foot freezer.

I’m an idiot.

To contact Jeff Lund, e-mail aklund21@gmail.com.