Dispelling the myth of the magical new year

When I was a little girl, my parents explained the concept of New Year’s Resolutions to me.  I thought that New Years’ Resolutions were a wonderful idea.  I took what they told me and reworked it until New Years’ Resolutions meant a fresh start every January 1st!  That was the one special day every year when I could re-make myself, re-invent myself and stop everything that I did ‘bad’ and start doing everything ‘good.’  I could stop being who I didn’t like and start being who I did like.  Oh, and I got to make lists, which even as a young girl, I totally dug.  Was I setting myself up for failure?  Oh yes.  And I quickly became a master at it.  And I was as faithful to my craft of self-sabotage as a crack whore to her pipe.  Having that January 1st ‘do-over’ day stuck in my head meant that I could and would put off making changes, (or trying to anyway) throughout the year, because it was not yet ‘the magic day’ of fresh beginnings.  It occurs to me now that sadly, I hung much of my self-worth on my ability (or lack there of) to complete my lofty and often unrealistic resolutions and as a result I wasted much of my time and life ‘waiting.’

And every year, on January 3rd, I was a failure.  Again.  To be further confirmed further on January 7th, when I had failed to lose the first 5 pounds, exercise daily and become a vegetarian.  And a fact to be cemented into my psyche by the third week of January, when I still had not shrunk my waist by three inches or attained clear skin and longer hair.  I would be despondent and discouraged (and mind you, this cycle probably all started when I was eleven years-old).

Failure.  I wore it like a favourite pair of track pants.  Everyone has a pair – soft, broken in, mildly (or horrendously) stained, completely unflattering but comfy and safe.  Outwardly, I never failed. I did well in school, I had lots of friends, I was not socially awkward, I didn’t have any glaringly obvious deformities (those were all in my head).  I was rarely unhappy or angry or insecure when dealing with ‘the world’.  I was the fat kid who was smart.  I was the fat kid who was funny.  I was the fat kid who smiled at everyone and was friends with most.  I was the fat kid with most of the right clothes that fit all wrong.  And I was a fraud.  Inside my head, I hated myself.  I thought that I was smart.  I knew that I was fat, although not the fattest, so there was hope.  I knew that I was ugly.  But not the ugliest, so I could fix it.  And I knew that with enough work, lists, happy thoughts and just the right number of magical January 1st’s, that I could stop being fat and ugly and be perfect instead.  I knew that I could be one of the cute, preppy girls with the Roots purse across their Polo embroidered chests.  They wore penny loafers or Keds without socks and never had smelly feet as a result.  They had perfect hair, perfect tiny clothes and everyone wanted to be their friends.  Even though these girls were about as witty as sack of dead kittens and nearly as bright, they were still the ‘it’ girls.  And they were mean, prone to violent outbursts that both fascinated and terrified me at the same time.  I secretly lived in fear of one day being the target of a ‘perfect girl’ raging beat down and being stripped of my carefully gathered and nurtured dignity for all to see.  I knew that if that were to happen, I would have to either kill myself or move to some remote cave in the Scottish Highlands (but I also knew that my parents would not sanction either, so I’d be totally fucked).  And these beautiful, horrible girls were everything that I did not want to be while at the same time being everything that my tween self secretly wanted to be (except for violent, I have always deplored violence of any type but at the time, to me, they were strong and confident and not taking shit from anyone, no matter what. I am thankful that my ‘grown up’ self sees things very differently).

My humour became more and more self-depreciating and sarcastic.  I developed a thicker skin and an even quicker wit.  I became better able to bury my sadness and disappointment within myself.  I refused to work to my full potential.  I refused to outwardly acknowledge any potential at all.  I did not partake in the drinking and drug use that these girls did (part of that dignity gathering thing), but I did hang around them while they did, and I became the friend who holds back a chicks hair while she pukes vodka and beer in her parents’ hedges.  And telling myself negative things about who I was, how I looked, what I could do for long enough, I began to believe all of the bullshit to be true.  And then I actually became what I had spent so much time telling myself that I was.  And Failure, my only true friend, once again failed to keep me warm at night.

I am so thankful to no longer be that sad, misguided, hidden little girl.  If I could talk to her now, I would let her know that curvy is not fat, that hips are a blessing, and that one day, the extra meat on her bones would be dead sexy.  I would let her know that ‘tall’ at eleven does not translate into tall forever and that when you grow up, TONNES of these short boys will be inches and feet taller than her seemingly gargantuan 5’4″. And most importantly that showing kindness to herself and others is always better than making sure that she never ‘takes any shit’ from anyone.

But I’ve gone off on a tangent (go figure!) that was induced by my realization that it is now January 15th and I STILL haven’t started my diet.  I STILL haven’t booked an appointment with a RMT, a doctor’s appointment, started reading a book, or done a lick of exercise (how is this one on my list for thirty-fucking-years already?!?  And all of these things being true, how am I to process it as meaning anything other than being a complete loser?), and in fact have not accomplished more than one thing on my magical January 1st list.

Not accomplishing very much (read: anything) got me to thinking.  January 1st is fairly arbitrary.  Someone decided that it marked a new year and a new beginning.  But, am I not free to be just as arbitrary and choose another day, maybe even EVERY day to mark a new beginning and another chance to succeed?  And, I have decided that I am free to do just that.  So, I hereby denounce January 1st as the be all, end all of NEW.  If I so choose, one minute from now, will be my ‘new beginning’ to lose weight, get my PhD. or just take the ‘me time’ that takes it paint my toenails.  If life gets in my way, or I get in my own way today, or my kids all start puking at the same time and I find myself ankle-deep in a vomitorium (yes, this shit really does happen sometimes!), then once calm descends and the Gravol kicks in, I’ll pick myself up and tackle my New Day Resolutions again.  Onward and upward.