In the illustrious words of Ebenezer Scrooge, all re-iterate, ‘Bah Humbug.’
All those New Year’s resolutions frosted and veiled in the post Christmas overload when the party food (all miniature of course), prosecco vapoured and jumper infused loathing has now come to the party, A little late, but we do not judge.
Secretly I make them. Never to vow or vocalise, for I am the breaker of so many rules. Dry January is great for me, on every other night, the night post the morning of … ‘I am never going to do this again!, sort of night. Gym, well I don’t like the guy, he does nothing for me and all attempts at liking have resulted in pools with clouds of chlorine and little ‘de-germing’ water puddles I have to step into, that is anything but. I have tried, dear Lord I have tried, but the idea of swimming with others in a pretend lane, watching nose plugs and swimming caps, pales to swimming in a pool on a sun kissed day. So lark it, leave it, Gym went down the plug hole. Swimming in a REAL swimming pool, outside, preferable naked, is still top of the list.
January is different. We have all these … yeah, going to do it, re-invent myself and be amazon, is just lovely my lasses, but for me … this year’s resolution is … picking the year I loved the most about myself, be it a decade or decades ago … and whatever, going to do it again. So what was your best year? Apart from all the psychologists saying go back to when you were ten … which I loved by the way, running, jumping, halter neck tops and dreaming about all sorts of things, the simple life. my year of choice for this year is 47.
I loved myself at forty-seven and it is the year I will be again. I don’t want to be younger, nothing like that, but be the fabulous I felt about myself then. I was fit (without the gym), drank copious amounts of wine, wrote endlessly and felt, well invincible. I was in the throes of lust and love. Like that very much. All still doable.
You see, it’s not about the age, or the decade, but the attitude. For a long time, circumstances have made me feel, well old. Others around me speak of this time as a great gift – you get free bus passes. You can wear purple hats, be silly, go to bed early, eat soup You can let the girdle go, instagram your breakfast and go grey. Not me … for goodness sake, if I make another year’s resolution, it is to still the ageing thing as a gift. Me and William Blake, we do not go gently into that dark night. We go …
The New Year’s resolution is a mind factor. A time factor of a great year and working on feeling those same feelings, living the same vibe and just discounting the numbers, wrinkles and sagging muscles to throw all to caution and be bold and silly and romantic and lustful and curious and wanting more. Settling is not just about the New Year’s resolution of go to the gym or not drink or not dream.
At forty seven I was in a different place to now. The skinny dipping will be difficult in the city and sure to be arrested if I try in the Hampstead Heath pools, but I am undeterred. The size ten may be elusive but the will to flaunt it does not die. Travelling is not going to be … oh have to get up early but darling, I am on my way. Full Brazilian wax still there. Hair done, no grey darling, not yet. Paint those nails, wear the make-up, strut the stuff, kill this fluff. That is my New Year’s resolution. Times change, working harder than ever before and that is good. It’s all good – the balcony swan song is done. The hideous gown when I get home is done. The lamenting is gone. Needed it, went through the valleys and all gone.
So, what am I saying? If you are doing the January New Year’s resolution thing – pick the best year and take it forward. If there is one thing I have been guilty of is only looking back, and those were the sweet times, but now, in my Silver Street, I am going to be forty seven forever.
What it your ‘Good Year?’ See yourself there. Be there. I am sure it does not involve any settling.
Image: Urban matter, kut.org.