CHARLOTTE, N.C. — I don't cook, and I don't work out, which frankly, I think is a winning combination.

And I don't make New Year's resolutions, which is just icing on the cake I don't bake. But a week into the New Year, I've had a weird urge to clean out the drawers and clean up my act.

It's like a domino effect. I go to put away a pot and suddenly I'm cleaning out the pot-and-pan drawer. And there I find a stray spatula and I go to open the cookware drawer and in minutes I'm sorting basters and whisks.

A random sponge sends me over to clean out the sponge- and-rag drawer, praying the only thing in there are sponges and rags. But somebody stuck a zip-lock bag in there, which then moves me into the maze of sandwich bags, tin foils and plastic wraps.

And all the while I'm hoping against hope that I don't run across anything that goes in that one drawer I spend the entire year trying to avoid. Alas, a tiny rubber ball—a favorite of the 5-year-old, but a choking hazard for the baby. So it goes into the dreaded drawer

The junk drawer.

The junk drawer is like a 3D scrapbook of my entire year. The pens alone take me back to every vacation spot or place of business I've been to. And a small number of match books and movie stubs remind me of how few date nights we have anymore. But oh, the finds—a roll of stamps, a pair of sunglasses, white-out, my favorite lip balm, a highlighter and an old yoga membership card.

I'm on a roll. I clean out the cabinets, the pantry and the oven. I'm thinking of repainting the kitchen when I pick up a Taste magazine and open it to a Mexican pie recipe. Mmm, that looks good.

How hard can it be? Meat, beans, cheese, a little sauce. A trip to the grocery and an hour later I've whipped up my first-ever pie.

What else, what else. I'm looking for next big thing to do, and I'm suddenly curious if I have any yoga classes left.

At the yoga studio, I speak softly so as not to disturb the fit, sweaty yogis. OK, so I didn't want anyone to hear me:

"Can you just swipe this card and see what happens?" I whisper.

With one eyebrow raised she runs it:

"You have nine paid yoga classes left on your card. Out of 10."

Great. I'm pacing myself nicely.

Back at home, a neighbor calls. He's heard I cooked something and wants to know if it's true.

"Yeah, I made a Mexican pie and resuscitated a yoga membership. What of it?"

I don't mean to be defensive, but deep down I suspect this is fleeting. Come March, my yoga card will be all used up and I'll be sitting in my cluttered kitchen thumbing through Mexican takeout menus, wondering where it all went wrong.

But for now I'm psyched. I'm even thinking of taking it to the next level. Maybe a Bundt cake and Pilates. Or beef carpaccio and a personal trainer. I'm cookin' up a workout and workin' out my cookin'. Another winning combination.

Robert Frost said "There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will."

Yeah, but if she looks good doing it ...