I spend the last night of the month of January wallowing on my couch eating oreos and watching When Harry Met Sally for the millionth time. When January hit and New Year Resolutions were flying at me from every direction, I had envisioned this moment to be very different.
On the 1st of January I had expected that by the 31st I would be so healthy I’d be happily surviving on an all-lettuce diet, nibbling leaves constantly and preaching about how great I felt.
I also imagined that due to excessive yoga I would be comfortably sitting in front of the TV in a headstand, my legs effortlessly resting in an upside-down crosslegged position.
I thought in those quiet, frosty first days of 2016 that by now I would have written copious amounts of pages and would now have that gentle air of someone who is so productive that they don’t need to brag about it.
But I went to yoga once, talked about how happy I was about it for a week, then never found the time to go again. I have done less writing than I could have done in the many hours that have passed from the 1st to the 31st.
And as far as healthy eating goes, I spent the last two days of January drinking dry martinis (olive, not lemon) in a dive of a bar called Oscars that strictly only plays music from musical theatre and whose clientele mainly wears PVC.
I sit on the couch, inside my blanket fort and feel like a bit of a failure. Everything seems so easy at the start of the year, it’s the ultimate fresh start, clean slate, rising sun. And then you start living in it and all those habits you tried to leave behind come creeping back, like a spider you washed down the drain an hour ago.
I decide to run a bath because at times like these that’s always the best thing to do. I put on Magic FM, light candles and get into the green water (coloured from a Lush bath bomb, I’m not just really dirty) and close my eyes.
I think about how if my resolutions had been “have lots of fun”, or “be healthy most of the time” or “write a few things you are really happy with” then I would have, for once in my life, kept to my resolutions for the whole of January.
I’m not the problem, my resolutions are.
So as I soak in the floral swamp I created in my bathroom, I decide to back track. Instead of being sad for what I haven’t done, I’m going to be happy for how great everything is.
It isn’t one of those eureka moments where suddenly the light of a thousand suns is shining down on me and as I jump for joy I get stuck half way up in the air in a climax of happiness.
No, I simply think: “everything is fine, let’s keep going.”
With a bathwater-wet hand I pick up Bridget Jones, a book I have read billions of times, and not some fancy book that I feel I ‘need’ to read. I don’t brush my hair before I blow dry it, cause who has the time these days? I sink into bed at 9pm, cause that is the only thing I want to do. And I pat myself on the back, which is hard to do when lying down.
Cause if a ‘new year, new me’ means becoming a person who doesn’t spend two nights in a row listening to a man croon the Maroon 5 version of “Pure Imagination” while eating a gin soaked olive out of a triangular glass, then that’s just not who I want to be.