Esther McCarthy: Work out to feel good about yourself, not to lose weight? As if
Esther McCarthy Giving the resolution algorithm a kicking Picture: Emily Quinn
I really didn’t want to write a column about New Year’s resolutions — I resolved not to, in fact. But I find myself surrounded by insufferable algorithms blowing on about meditations and manifestations and saving money and shaving time, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years on this incredible blue marble, it’s this: If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. I’ve also asked friends, colleagues, and this one weird guy who hangs around the post office (he often doesn’t wear shoes, but he has like a wise aura about him, you know?) what they are trying out, so here’s what to look out for this new year.
When first I heard of this, I liked it. Sure, what it is, only stoicism with an expensive podcast mic and good lighting? It’s pretty simple, you just have to stop trying to control other people’s behaviour, reactions, and opinions. So you let them be late. You let them be disappointing. You let them misunderstand you. Do they make bad choices? Let them.
Mel is all about you working on yourself. So you decide your responses, your boundaries. She urges emotional decluttering. Reclaim your energy, she declares. Jesus Christ, it’s like she’s never even heard of an Irish family. I tried this at home, I really did, and it lasted exactly 33 seconds.
Because it’s all very well deciding to protect your calm but when the dishwasher hasn’t been emptied and the milk has been left out, with the cap hanging off it, and the cat litter is now officially a biohazard, you can’t just ‘let them’ not do anything around the house because it means YOU end up doing all the jobs.
Plus, calm is massively overrated. I mean, if you don’t let a roar out of you, get that vein pulsing, and let your blood pressure create just the right shade of crimson in your haggard face, they won’t be scared enough to get their shit together and function at the bare minimum required. You must then point out that your face only got this messed up after you became their mother. Oh, now they feel bad? Let them.
Listen, at my age, the only thing dry about me is my T-zone, my split ends, and my vulva. If I can wet my whistle, without it involving an oestrogen pessary, I’m going to. I’m drinking a gin and tonic right now, typing this. Let me.
And don’t be giving me that rubbish about muscle weighing more than fat. That’s a lie a kind person made up to make her chubby friend feel better in the 1990s when Weight Watchers became all the rage, and it just kind of stuck. If it is true, then I’m Arnold Schwarzenegger. But if anyone wants to lie when they see me and tell me I look great, I will let them.
PASS! After spending so much time with my pals and relatives in December, what with all the meet-ups and the pantos and the dinners and the prinks and the drinks and the lunches and the cheeseboards and the walks and the movie nights and the ice skating and the making Christmas magical, I never want to see those assholes again.
Except maybe the dog.
By Easter, though, we’ll have forgiven (but not forgotten — get ready for a regift in 11 months’ time, Margaret) that Secret Santa gift of cellulite cream from your third cousin and shall be ready to meet up for an egg hunt and a Sunday roast. And Margaret will be sick as a dog when she sees us wearing those jeans to spite that passive-aggressive wench. Ha! Let her.
Step outside your comfort zone, the resolution experts say. Bleurgh. Do I have to?
Fine.
So I’m going to force myself to sign up for that dance class, pay the full fee upfront in a delusion that it will make me finish the full course, then I’ll go to two sessions until I find some excuse not to go anymore. I’ll convince myself that I don’t need a class, I’ll dance at home, in the kitchen, like no-one’s watching, as the old adage goes. Except... I’m never really on my own so I’ll be pointed at and laughed at if I throw shapes with KC and the Sunshine Band. But I’ll do a little dance, make a little love, and get down tonight.
Maybe they’ll vomit a little in their mouth. Let them.
Maybe Mel is on to something after all.
