January is a torturous month of tedious whining and self-righteous proclamations of party-pooper intentions. The sound of non-alcoholics clambering on to that foreboding wagon — while lazy chubby-chubs pretend to join the gym and their friends fight an imaginary battle against fags and carbs — is the equivalent to a hefty splattering of conversational Agent Orange.
The January blub-a-loos are contagious and generally hard to avoid. I know, I have made countless peer pressured New Year’s Resolutions, distinctly lacking any form of ingenuity or drive. Creating unrealistic goals that focus on our imperfections and make us feel like useless piles of shite when we inevitably give up just seems a bit silly, really. Listening to everyone harping on about their ‘New year, new me!’ agenda isn’t as uplifting as most like to believe. On the whole, we’re not particularly interested.
Why do we have to be so extreme? It starts with splurging over Christmas, eating our weight in mince pies and drunking as though the dreaded millennium were upon us once again. Then our stomachs sink as we whoosh backwards like a giant pendulum in slow-mo: “ Urrgh gaaad! I gained a stone. I have no money. Life is shit, I must do better. I will repent…” It’s hard to remember the previous year’s mistakes when the ‘churnalists’ flood social media sites with chirpy articles about the latest fitness craze or food-free ‘diets’ – if everyone else is striving for perfection, shouldn’t I be giving it a crack too?
As the clock struck 12 at the turn of 2015, I was trying to hold back the relatively unprecedented urge to regurgitate a tequila shot. Moments later I was hiding in the bathroom of a rooftop bar in Phnom Penh, telling my Dad he was, basically, the love of my life. I missed the much anticipated fireworks. The first 24-hours of 2015 were spent dancing, jamming to every shade of music and eventually (miraculously) with a little loving.
Straddling a loaded rocket, for the first time, I have launched myself into a new year without looking over my shoulder, without looking down at myself, but simply looking to the horizon and anticipating an explosive synergy. I want to be buff. I want to be happy. But I am not giving up the elements in my life that usually balance it with fun. Sure, I will continue to go to the gym, as I did before, but without those hardcore bootylicious expectations. I’m still going to get a bit drunk and dance like a dick. I will probably continue to eat ‘naughty’ food when no one’s looking. But, I won’t succumb to the over-hyped mass-depression induced by the needlessly mundane month of January.