It’s the week before the new year, and my boyfriend and I are sitting crossed legged across from each other on a carpet. Both of us have pens and notepads in hand and while he’s running through his – admittedly very ambitious – New Year’s resolutions, I’m doodling idly in a margin.
It’s the same scene as every year for the past four years, and I’m trying to figure out what my new resolutions are going to be. New language? Nope, I tried French. My Duolingo lessons were waylaid after two months and I’m left with the phrase “Je vis avec mes chats.”
Yes. I live with my cats.
Every year since high school I’ve set myself goals, the same as everyone else, to be slimmer. Smarter. More sophisticated. To hit the gym four or five times a week. To cut out sugar. To read two books a month (I know, LOL). To be nicer to people and to smile more. To update my wardrobe to include more than just raggedy jeans and t-shirts.
And every year we get to about May, June, July, when the notion hits: It’s not going to be this year. And cue the sadness, the frustrations. But maybe next year….?
So the week before the new year, my boyfriend and I grab our pens and sit across from each other and run through a list again.
But despite all the disappointment in those failed goals, the “I just want this year to be better,” I’m very much the same jeans-and-t-shirt girl as last year and the year before last. I’m still the girl that lives with her cats, the one that does a happy dance when she gets her eyeliner done correctly. Still trying to fit in a book a month and chasing those last five kg’s.
2019 has been a rough, long year filled with nervous breakdowns and disappointment. This year I’ve decided to do something different. I’m setting the notebook and pen and unrealistic expectations aside. This grumpy, sleepy, snack-deprived redhead is grabbing herself a glass of wine and saying goodbye to the New Year’s resolutions.
I’m not chasing those last 5 or 10 kg’s. Trying to get rid of them last year left me with an eating disorder that I’m only now recovering from. I’m done with setting the bar so high that I feel like I can’t muscle my way over. 2020 will not be the year of failed New Year’s resolutions, because there won’t be any.
I’m not saying that there won’t be challenges, because I believe that challenging yourself leads to growth. But instead of resolutions, I’m going to wing it. It’ll be pretty much the same as every other year, but without the guilt.
I’ve decided that 2020 is going to be the year of naps and snacks and jeans and t-shirts, and trying to sneak in an extra couple of pages before bedtime when I know I should have put the book down an hour ago.
It’s going to be the year of hitting the gym with friends to feel better and not to hit a number on the scale.
2020 will be the year that we say “fuck it” to New Year’s resolutions.