January has this habit of making me feel blue. The big festivities and general air of jolliness that Christmas brings abruptly wither and die as I discard the last scraps of dust-gathering tissue paper and bite the head off the last chocolate Santa. And then with all the clean-up over, a food coma subsiding and a liver on the road to recovery I’m faced with perhaps the biggest outlet for partying of the year- New Years.
New Years has a lousy habit of making me feel inadequate-and what I don’t understand is why I feel like I’m the only one who objects to the notion of forced enthusiasm? I understand the well meant wishes of Happy New Year, champagne is always an appropriate beverage and any given day I love to wear crazy hats and set off party poppers- but being forced to do it? And how can one evening require us all to get so drunk that we kiss a stranger and stay up into the wee hours only to go on extreme weight loss programs, crowd the gyms and resolve to be better individuals the next day? Oh, if only bitterness was a smell that translated through cyber space. Perhaps this needs further explanation.
My revulsion begins in the days leading up to New Years Eve. Everyone seems to think resolutions should be made a public matter rather than a private one, which you can quietly tuck under the bed until next year as soon as you’ve had enough of it. And there are always undoubtedly those few smug friends who have never had a love-handle poke over the top of their skinny jeans in the first place and are too self-righteous for resolutions. On the other end of the spectrum, there are the people like me. Those of us, who have been making the same resolutions for the past five years and are reluctant to discuss them having foreseen the stamp of failure looming around February first. Only that five-years-running list gets longer rather than shorter as each year comes by. Take last year in instance, my additional resolution was to make more of an effort in my appearance and come December, look what happened.
I imagine a certain colleague of mine would refer to this as typical Type-A syndrome behaviour. Type-A personalities being those loathsome overachievers of this world, never satisfied with their seemingly small successes and couldn’t possibly find use in practices such as: closing their eyes and counting to ten in times of stress. I mean, who really does that anyway?! If I find out who I acquired this Type-A syndrome from I’ll be sure lend a catastrophic blow to the persons head.
Failed resolutions aside, January is also my birth month and this brings melancholy in of it’s own right. Somewhere around my twenty-third birthday I found myself screaming at the clock to stop and dreading the thought of becoming an adult, hangovers and sleep deprivation. In two weeks I will turn twenty-six and instead of taking pleasure in (the ever decreasing number of) people saying: but you’re still a baby– for me twenty-six is closer to thirty and that scares me more than vampires, critters with more than four legs, and food poisoning.
Which leaves me with a decision to make: do I 1/ scrap all existing resolutions and start anew 2/ make no resolutions whatsoever screw the skinny jeans and idea of perfection all together or 3/ resolve to accept myself and the fact that I really only like celery sticks when their slathered in peanut butter or pimento cheese. I’m resolving to make peace with the month of January and all the reasons why it’s not such a bad month. January is the birth month of my blog (now two years old) and the month that four years ago I decided to give the geeky balding guy in glasses who kept appearing in my apartment a chance (and never looked back). In two weeks I will be going to my first wedding dress fitting (need I say more- eek!) and catching up with old friends in London. In three weeks I will be running my first marathon, something that I’ve wanted to do for ten years but never had the nerve, or knee strength for and at the end of the month I will spend a weekend galavanting with my sister (who I have just about forgiven for not coming home for the holidays this year.) Oh, and in between all that, I’m embarking on a one hundered push-up challenge with Don (and let me assure you, I will win) and of course I will be cooking and eating, blogging, wedding planning, making more time for friends and family and getting back into those skinny jeans (some things never change). A new year has never looked so positive. Let the good times roll.