I’m standing on a gray rocky shore. It’s misting outside and I’m freezing, and as I shudder in the cold, I’m waving goodbye to a boat full of laughing revelers who are sipping delicious wine while dancing to fun music. I’ll join in the merriment again when the boat returns, but it will be a long time before it comes back to shore.
This is what January feels like to me.
Perhaps that’s a tiny bit dramatic; but after all the festivities of the past three months, I have no interest in giving in to January’s rigid demands and being her bitch yet again by making resolutions I know I won’t keep.
I’ve played the resolution game every New Year of my adult life, and every single year has included something about losing weight and/or getting fit. And every single year I’ve failed … until 2010. Last year, I managed to lose twelve pounds, but it didn’t happen until August. I’m happy about my success, but experiencing it eight months in begs the question: why bother with New Year’s resolutions? It seems we’re doomed to fail in January.
So here’s my one resolution: I’m going to do my best at everything. That’s it. No giving up alcohol for the entire month of January. No one hundred push-ups or sit-ups every day. I’m going to work hard at my job and, more importantly, at being a nice person, a good daughter, a good friend, and a good citizen. I’d love to get into those jeans I’ve been hanging onto since 1999, but I will not give up the occasional morning bun at my favorite bakery or a big oozing burrito from my favorite taqueria, and I won’t feel guilty when every now and again I order a pizza after staying out late for drinks with my friends. Life is short, and I’ve been making resolutions since I was sixteen, which means I have twenty-four deprived Januaries to make up for. And I intend to make up for them all this January.
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