Every January my inbox is flooded with desperately annoying emails with the subject header ‘New year, new you!’. Now I understand this happens for two reasons. Firstly, I understand because I used to work in PR and I was lazy and New Year, New You is easy. Secondly, it’s because by January, everyone is cold, broke, miserable and ready to top themselves if they don’t see an epic change in their life ASAP.
And so of course, as soon as the tree is down and the Celebrations have been polished off, everyone joins the gym or gets the new celebrity fitness DVD, they swear off booze for a month, dye their hair a very unflattering colour and join Match.com. And so of course, within three weeks, you’re back to mousey brown, the gym membership is at the bottom of your handbag, drowning in receipts from the off licence and you’re drunk dialing your ex at three am on a Thursday because, once again, it’s easy and we’re lazy and new years resolutions Just Don’t Work.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m as bad as everyone else. Last year I didn’t even wait for the end of January, I rocked up to my ex’s bar, shitfaced, on New Years Day to make my mistake. This year, he sent me an email but managed to wait a whole week. But I still made my resolutions. Three years ago, I made the following for Marie Claire:
Do not kiss boring boys/gay boys/non-residents of these United States
Try to meet deadlines
Don’t murder my roommate’s budgie on purpose or accidentally (on purpose)
I did not succeed in the first two but I did manage to get my roommate to send the budgie to a ‘bird sanctuary’ run by terrifying women who didn’t have teeth and may or may not have eaten said budgie. I was pleased either way.
Last year, I pledged to lose ten pounds (obvs), not to take taxis and not to get involved with impotent sociopaths, alcoholics, boys in bands or massive twats. I lost six pounds, I took so many taxis and I was involved with one impotent sociopath, one alcoholic, one boy in a band and two massive twats. And so, this year, I’m not even going to try. I’m not setting a weight loss goal, instead, I’m getting back into yoga. And I really am, I’ve found an awesome teacher and I’m already doing shoulder stands. I’ve never been able to do shoulder stands. I’ve also come to the conclusion that quite a lot of my shoes necessitate the taking of cabs but at the same time, I’ve also come conclusion that I’m thirty-fucking-two and if I want to take a taxi, I will.
As for the men… well. It’s dead easy to say I’m going to cut loose my exes, not indulge boys with guitars and avoid men who tell me that they are – look away now mother – ‘complete assholes’ and ‘only good for f**king’ approximately seven minutes post-penetration. If that. You know I want to sit here, hand on heart and tell you that I’m only going to get involved with mature, emotionally healthy, loving, responsible men who aren’t too obsessed with their career/not over their ex/just not bothered enough to try to have a real relationship but if I’m honest, that would probably mean I should be sat on the sofa in a Topshop sweater that says ‘bored’, in 120 denier tights and knee high blue argyle socks. It would probably also mean I need to be a mature, emotionally healthy, loving and responsible woman who isn’t too busy traveling, working, watching wrestling, getting her nails did and visiting dinosaur parks in Austin to have a real relationship.
So instead of making resolutions, I’m making plans. I’m planning on packing for LA on Wednesday, on traveling to Australia on Sunday. I’m planning on going to Italy in summer, I’m planning on visiting Russia and Japan as soon as humanly possible. I’m planning on publishing a new book in summer and another one at Christmas, on going to Wrestlemania in April. I’m planning on taking loads of cabs in my super high heels. I’m planning on making lots more time for my friends. I’m planning on being happy. So screw those last four pounds and screw that emotionally unavailable, absolute bastard who is only good for one thing.
Just, you know, hopefully that’ll be the other kind of screwing.