I am truly grateful to have two sets of absolutely great next-door neighbors. And my gratitude grows and grows every time I remember the neighbors who once lived to the right of me.

One summer, they rented their basement to a reggae band from Allentown. The group practiced late at night and so loudly that their first song not only woke me from deep slumber but also created such a release of adrenaline that I’d need to read rather than sleep for the next half hour or so.

Eventually, I discovered that running a noisy fan along with an air conditioner before they began practicing provided some peace. Unfortunately, it took me two fitful weeks to figure this out.

But it took an entire summer to figure out why I kept damaging the lawn mower blade — and sometimes my shins! — when I cut the grass. These neighbors, you see, always had two or three foster kids, and they forced them to eat outside at a picnic bench in fair weather.

Then one day I heard the wildest one (the one I found in my kitchen on two occasions) complaining about the outdoor exile, and things suddenly made sense. After eating, he was taking his cutlery and tossing into my yard.

I tell you about the absolutely great neighbors at present and the not-so-great from the past because I aim to be the former but fear I am becoming the latter. My fear is sincere because I’ve done more than my fair share of screaming in the last three months — sometimes really early in the morning — but I’m afraid to ask if my immediate neighbors can hear it.

I’m lifting weights with my legs, you see, as intensely as I did in my 20s and 30s.

Let me be clear. This does not mean I’m lifting as much weight as way back when. After all, I’m more than 25 years older and almost 25 pounds lighter. What it means is that I’m exerting just as much energy.

And sometimes I try to handle too much weight or attempt to do one more rep, and the weight starts going the wrong way.

So I dig deeply into my reserves to keep from going down and a scream comes out as well. A loud one. Though not quite as loud, I hope, as the ones from the late-night singer in the reggae band.

Or as loud as I screamed when the mower-fired fork nearly skewered my shin.

Another reason that I’m sharing neighbor nightmares is that I’ve also been doing more than my fair share of something besides screaming: Thinking about why I get so bothered by people making New Year’s Resolutions.

That bother should not be. Why should I take offense when people state that they intend to improve their fitness?

Then it hit me — though with not quite the force as the mower-flung fork: Abstract nouns like “resolutions” do not improve health or fitness. Resolutions are nothing more than expressions of intentions, even the best of which pave the road to Hell.

Action verbs, however, can create a path to health-and-fitness Heaven.

So this New Year, resolve, resolve, resolve, but don’t make resolutions.

It may seem like one of those minor differences that only an English teacher would emphasize, so let me be clear about what I mean by providing the backstory to my screaming.

At no time since I suffered the debilitating one-two punch of a fractured femur and a fractured pelvis did I make a resolution about battling back from it. But I’d like to believe I’ve shown resolve by firmly seeking solution after solution to my problem.

These solutions have taken all sorts of forms, the latest of which is a specific weightlifting program for cyclists designed to increase power while cycling.

I will admit that I started the program with more than a bit of skepticism and that for every two steps forward there seems to be one step backward, but ultimately I sense that I am onto something. So I’m motivated, so motivated that I’m pushing myself harder in the weight room than I have in years.

I write this, however, not so you learn about me, but so you learn about you.

Take some time during this new year to seriously think about your health and fitness goals. Also consider your beliefs, your desires — as well as those quirky little peculiarities that make you you.

But don’t force yourself to make a half-baked resolution. Be patient. Let the vast stew of yourself simmer over your internal fires.

What sort of a meal are we hoping eventually results? One that you eat and eat yet somehow can’t get enough.

One that’s chocked full of resolve, enough resolve that you feel driven to become the healthiest possible you — for more than just the first few weeks of the new year.