Up and At Em

03Jan09

I have never been a big fan of New Years resolutions – I make and fail my promises on a non-seasonal basis. But this year, my self-improvement urges  surfaced simultaneously with the chiming of the midnight bells, popping of corks and fireworks. My resolutions, as ever, are:

- come up with a savings plan that does not hinge on an increased second hand value of shoes,
- shape up, because age is not doing me any favors,

Part of why I though, at this specific time, that the time for lasting change might have arrived, was that I, in contrast to my usual early January post-shag-with-wrong-guy-champagne-hangover-and-fag-ends-in-kitchen-sink-angst,
am in a setting very conductive to resolving on, and sticking to, great things.

Sitting at cottage window, watching the snow settle yet again, over snow already settled, eating an orange and feeling a nice taught pull at calf muscles – yesterdays skiing – it is easy to feel calm, serene and full of good intentions. No shoes at present within reach of my plastic, and there are no tubs of ice-cream in the fridge. Or so I thought – but it was a treacherously weak peace, and I broke it, in folly.

I was bold, I was careless: I thought I was safe, and thus I slipped, fell, wings burnt by the sun. Instead of taking another walk through wintery woods, or another tumble on the ice (the Better Man is teaching me to skate: there will be a slap-stick and possibly photographically illustrated post coming shortly), instead of sitting still in the boat, or as it were, reading something inspirational about thin French women and their cigarettes, I thought I could go online.

It started out good, as I found an article on Madonnas personal trainer. Her firm-as-triceps belief that no woman not shaped “like a teeny tiny ballerina” can be considered attractive, nor morally upstanding, installed me with a very healthy dosis of self-loathing and coropral disgust.

Unfortunately, while scrolling, my eye was caught by some very tempting recipes over at the Guardian. There were a type of drop scones with bacon and cheddar that it would be a crime not to try. There was also a recipe for a kind of trifle, that mixed chocolate and cherries, I think, with some kind of booze: but I should not be writing about this, better not mention the devil.

Taking refuge in my in-box, I found a newsletter on Detoxing that seems doable, but also, unfortunately, an alert of an online sale, which I had to just browse very quickly, and where there was a deep-royal purple satin pump that just…called to me. And also a suede Diane von Furstenberg boot, same chocolate colour as the trifle…

I shook my head hard, and closing, firmly, window after window, I went over to a site that administers home deliveries of seasonal greens. At 20 Euro a pop, you get a basket full of swedes, turnips, cabbages, carrots…ferried to your door: unavoidable, a constant stern reminder.

The Better Man, however, was not impressed with this, and told me in no uncertain terms that he does not, ever, see the beauty of celery – it pales in comparison to the beauty of the filet mignon.

Wounded, faltering, but soldiering on, searching frantically now for something to bring me back on track, I took instead a final punch:  a lengthy NYTimes piece,  scientifically proving the impossibility of changing for the better.

At the very moment of reading, was brought, with deus-ex-machina timing and precision, a newly baked loaf of white bread from the oven. A glass of wine was offered over by the fire. And I, but human and frail, watched the shortest New Years resolution yet down the drain.

But soon it’ll be January 8th, as good a date as any, for starting again.

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Tags: breaking new years resolutions, keeping new years resolutions