I know, even as I sit here with a large glass of something restorative, a new packet of ciggies, and Gyp beside my feet snoring and farting gently, that all around the world there will be people who are beginning 2021 with their good intentions firmed up into New Year’s Resolutions….
*pauses for a large drink and wonders where to begin the diatribe that is burning her brain*
Okay. Here goes.
Whatever possesses anybody with even half brain to think drunken promise made to their other half in the pub (in the vain hope of oral gratification) is going to last beyond Tuesday? Worse though are those persons of a prim self-improving mindset who will have written down their plans/resolutions at some time in mid-November. (In my opinion they just need a slap/a life.)
Anyway, whoever you are and whatever you have resolved to do. You. Won’t. Do. It.
The gym membership card will grow dust on the mantelpiece and, by August, you will throw it in the bin thinking wistfully about the amount of Prosecco/Doom Bar/WHY that seventy-four quid could have bought you.
The packet of ciggies you dramatically threw in the dustbin at 12.01am will be being retrieved and tenderly cleaned before breakfast time.
The jog you set out on will only result in you laying by the footpath bringing up your toenails, while a whole slew of elderly ladies will walk their dogs past you and make no attempt to disguise their mirth. (Some of the dogs will piss on you as you lay there sunk in your own misery. Do not attempt chastisement. Old ladies will set about you with their walking sticks if you abuse Tinkerbell or Fluffy.)
The bicycle you were going to ride to work will appear on Craig’s List before the end of February.
The bread ingredients will just sit in the cupboard until they are so far past their sell by date even my friend Ruby would think twice before ingesting them.
The strange computer thing that you were going to use as an aid to exercise will have become the property of your teenage son/husband and will now be either a golf course or something I wouldn’t pretend to understand – or want to.
And the book on self-improvement (by whatever skinny prune-faced female is currently in fashion) will join hundreds of others in the window of whatever charity shop you hate the most.
So you see, whatever way you cut it, making New Year’s Resolutions is the last resort of the pathetic – and is absofreakinglutely not the way to sort out your life.
Go away and have a proper think about what you need to do, and stop wasting money on crap to make yourself think you are seriously taking charge….