Esther McCarthy: Screw you, reinvention — my New Year's resolutions are aiming much lower

We don’t have to become new people just because the calendar flipped.

Ugh. So here we are: The first Saturday of January. I’ve pinpointed this as the exact day when the year stops pretending to be inspirational and turns up like a cranky bailiff. January doesn’t knock. January kicks the door in, like a hired goon, surveys the damage, sneers, and hands you an invoice.

Oi, fatty. You didn’t think those five gallons of Baileys and 643 toasted ham, turkey, spiced beef, and stuffing sandwiches were just going to magically disappear, did you? No refunds. It’s payment day, here’s the invoice, the goods are on your arse.

Or maybe that’s just me.

The really annoying thing is that back in early December, I was so organised. Dare I say smug?

I sent a voicenote to a friend proposing we get the jump on January and all its renew, revive, reboot, rebound, cleanse, glow-up, baloney.

For once, I was thinking ahead. Let’s start now, I plotted deviously, deep in a pre-Christmas fugue. We can send each other food and exercise diaries, I said. We’ll get the workout done early in the day, I said. We’ll make a plan and stick to it, I said.

Turns out, I was absolutely full of it. All talk, no walk. No run. No HIIT. No kettlebells, no weights class, no Pilates, no swim aerobics. I did go on one walk with my buddy, but we ended up in a burger joint, so I don’t think it counts.

December Me is such a liar. January Me is left holding the unpaid bill.

We’ll get the workout done early in the day, I said. We’ll make a plan and stick to it, I said.

And now here I am, at the point where I’m apparently supposed to feel revved up. Brimming with purpose. A new me. Instead, shocker, I’m the same me, staying up too late, cursing the alarm, chasing my own tail – which is, unfortunately, still attached to the Baileys bum. (I even made a cake with Baileys, god it was gorgeous.) 

Oh, and of course, the house is full of decorations and guilt. The postman is still giving me side-eye over the unreasonable volume of festive deliveries, several of which I still haven’t wrapped or handed over to their intended recipients, who will now 100 percent assume I panic-bought them in the sales. Dammit!

Yet, now is when the wellness industry would like us to thrive.

Sign up for Dry January! Don’t you know all the most successful people have 5am starts? How many push-ups can you do? Doesn’t matter. It’s ICE PLUNGE time. What do you mean you don’t have a vision board? Amateur. Have you optimised your morning routine? Your gut health? Your mindset? Your cortisol levels? Your life?? HAVE YOU?

January has notes, January is a bossy boots.

Well, screw you, reinvention. This year, I am aiming lower. Much lower. If I drink more than two glasses of water, I’m calling that a win. If I answer emails, semi-politely, that’s a self high-five. If I take the tree down by February ( or before it becomes a fire hazard, whichever comes first) that’s a big tick in the hurrah box.

Let’s all just try to survive, will we? Are you with me?

I’ve written in a diary since I was about 12, and it quietly fizzled out in the last few years.

That’s not to say I’m doing nothing. Honest. I’m just refusing to treat January like an audition for a better version of myself. And really, if I’m any kinder to myself, I’ll disappear up my own arse. But there are a few small things I’d like to ease back into.

One is journaling. I’ve written in a diary since I was about 12, and it quietly fizzled out in the last few years. I blame my phone. So resolution number one is to leave the blasted android downstairs at night. Radical stuff. 

That will, hopefully, lend itself to resolution number two: spending a few minutes before sleep, in the leaba, scribbling down a few lines about my day. No wit. No insight. No pressure, I’m not writing it for anyone, just a (highly likely boring) record that I was here and awake and functioning, more or less.

Resolution number three is even less glamorous. Every day, I’m going to put one thing into either a charity bag or a get-rid-of-it-now bag. One jumper. One mug. One mysterious cable that’s been holding me to emotional ransom in case it’s of vital importance. But if I haven’t used it since 2003, I’m probably safe to chuck it. 

I might even list my first item on Vinted, which I have been threatening to do for a while now. If I start today, imagine how free I’ll feel in a month. January wants transformation. I’m offering one threadbare sock at a time.

Because that’s the thing about January. It doesn’t need ambition. It needs gentleness. A bit of grace. We don’t have to become new people just because the calendar flipped. We’re allowed to ease back in. We’re allowed to still be tired and to take the year one unremarkable, manageable day at a time. I’ll be right here with you, we can do this.

Unless resolution number four – win the Lotto – comes to pass. In which case, I’ll see you jive turkeys later.