In the interest of making both Mrs. G. and my personal physician happy in 2006, I hereby resolve to strive for complacency.

To aim low in the expectations department and smile broadly. Chill out. Exhale more. Yell less. Live longer.

The world of men will not feel their ranks diminished by the loss of one Type A personality like me. And every breath on the road to relaxation will drop my blood pressure another point or two.

Who am I kidding? I could no sooner relax any more than I could fly. But it's a nice idea and makes for a meaningful New Year's resolution, doesn't it?

It's tough to be mellow, even though I was told recently that a man of my age — ahem! — needs to pay attention to things like borderline high blood pressure, sodium intake and the frustrations that contribute to daily stress.

A few years ago, a team of hospital nurses held a heart-risk appraisal here at the newspaper. My lifetime of fitness had not kept my blood pressure completely in check, they said.

One of them looked me in the eye and suggested I find ways to cut back on stressful situations, such as daily newspaper deadlines.

I laughed out loud.

It's not in my genes.

Mrs. G. says my problem is more psychiatric than genetic, even as she puts the brakes on coffee and salt-laden plate lunches.

Her theory? She says I'm welded to a notion of perfection that is impossible to achieve, which leads to stress, which leads to blood pressure issues.

Drives her crazy, though. I straighten something on a counter and she un-straightens it. While I'm standing there. And then folds her arms, silently daring me to change it.

Deep down inside, I want to be lazy, but I just can't sit still on a Saturday. I'd like to toss clothing into my dresser with the reckless delivery of a Kansas tornado, but I fold them instead. And doesn't everyone adjust wall paintings with a level?

A lot of men aren't geared for a low-key existence. They power through life. Each day is filled with a hundred different battles. It's all one big competition.

Tell you what, though: I think stress is addictive. Men enjoy it. The whole headlong rush toward whatever they're rushing toward leaves them high. They bite off more than they can chew because they like it. They swallow it whole, hoping the stress won't choke them like a chunk of steak.

So where does this leave me?

Ask me a year from now. But in the meantime, can I straighten that pile for you?

Reach Mike Gordon at mgordon@honoluluadvertiser.com.