The day Christmas passed, I was ready. Ready to take out the tree and rearrange the living room. Ready to trade gingerbread for Vietnamese food and egg nog for tea. I adore the holiday season, but I am ready to fold up all the shimmer and traditions and let it just be winter. Welcome, New Year.
I am irresolute and always have ambivalence toward resolutions, but the other strand is this: I don’t want to lose 10 lb. I don’t want to exercise. I don’t want to be kinder or more generous or smarter. In fact, I don’t want to see this year as an opportunity for personal betterment at all. I have always been so bent on self-improvement, and I suppose I still am, in a way. But for now I am more inclined to see the year ahead as a gift, something good and given freely, something I have never earned and never will. And instead of resolving to be more or better, I feel more like giving myself a gift. Like resolving to have ice cream at least once a week. Or resolving to go outside early in the morning, even just for a minute or two. Or resolving to drink more (were I not pregnant) or keep a vase of flowers on the table or take the kids out for croissants on Wednesdays.
These are resolutions that I can get behind, can drum up some enthusiasm for. Welcome, 2013.