It seems to have become fashionable, in the last few years,
to reject the making of New Year’s resolutions. The first day of the year
stumbles dazedly in to find social media – and traditional media – suddenly a-crow
with proclamations that there’s no such thing as a ‘new you’, that resolutions
are an affront to the modern goals of self-acceptance and (shudder) self-love,
and that no-one keeps them past the first week anyway so why beat yourself up
trying in the first place? Well, these
naysayers can go f*** themselves as far as I’m concerned.
Sure, self-acceptance is something we should all aim for in
general, but who the hell should accept the selves that are in evidence on 1
Jan? The self I am at this time of year, and I’m pretty sure I’m joined in this
by 98% of the population of the Christmas-celebrating world, is not exactly a
thing of radiant beauty. No, it is grey
and pallid, having been deprived of all sunlight and air by Midwinter. It is
creaky and flaccid from ten days of sitting on its arse being drip-fed a
continuous flow of sugary, fatty treats and prevented from exercising by being
(literally and figuratively) a hundred miles away from its gym membership and
yoga studio. It is a strange, co-dependent, sloth-like creature, trained only
to watch festive TV, bicker with family or, at the very most, play the odd
board game. Add the traditional NYE alcohol consumption into this mix and the particular
me that I am on New Year’s Day is definitely not one that should be encouraged
to hang around.
In my opinion, New Year’s resolutions are absolutely vital
for the post-festive-season animal to catapult themselves out of the holiday
torpor and back into the world of the living. They are necessary to remind us
all that we are better than the slobbish teenager we have regressed into over
recent weeks, that we are capable of more. Resolutions provide me with the
exact motor I need to carry me through the bumpy landing of returning to normal
life and routine, and on through the still-dark days and over the steep hill to
where the warmth and light of Spring are waiting. I need the glowing will’o-the-wisps of somewhat
unachievable goals to focus on so that I can survive the grey drear of January
and February. Yes, it’s a massive
comedown littered with dying Christmas trees, we’re all broke and unhealthy,
and the weather is actually getting worse not better, but Lo a Better Future is
nigh! If you can just envisage it, if you just sit down and make a Ten-Point
List for the Achievement of Perfection, then perfection will truly be yours!
Just to be clear, I don’t care if perfection will truly be
mine, that’s not the point. Of course I know that I’m not more likely to drink
gallons of water, have a daily yoga practice, or ‘get good skin’ at this time
of year than I was in lovely, sun-drenched, outdoorsy June. I just need some renewed hope and intention to
stop me from shrivelling up entirely and taking permanently to my bed. And who
can tell, maybe 2020 WILL be the year I finally write a novel and get a job I
actually like? I’m not holding my breath on the good skin front, obviously, I’m
not completely insane. But if I can hang onto the tail of even one of my glittering
dreams until Summer, then resolving them into existence now will have been worth
it.
