New Year’s resolutions were the holiday equivalent of magic spells when I was in elementary school. A quest I had to undertake each year, resolutions were muttered Wingardium Leviosa–style before midnight, and I was bound to the task of achieving them all before the next New Year.
I always chose three resolutions, and I took them incredibly seriously. I wrote them down (usually in silver-penned bubble letters) inside my Lisa Frank unicorn journal. (I later graduated to the leopard journal.) Then, I memorized them, folded the paper up in some sort of ridiculously complex shape, and sealed it with a kiss (SWAK!). There it would stay, entombed in fluorescent pink and purple pages until the following December.
Granted, my resolutions were usually something along the lines of “Share with Emily,” or “Don’t lie to the attendance lady,” or “Don’t steal Oreos from the pantry before dinner.” But there was a significant sense of ritual and commitment—it was almost religious.
The following December, I would either be ecstatic or severely disappointed after opening my origami masterpiece of bubble-lettered resolutions and recalling the past year. Regardless, I always made new resolutions with the same ferocious intent to keep them.
I don’t really make New Year’s resolutions anymore. But now, looking back—it’s something I should reinstate. Whether you keep them or not, any attempt to change yourself for the better is certainly admirable.
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