“New Year, New Me,” they scream, “this year will be different. I will be thin, and beautiful, and fill my body with delicious vitamins and nutrients and BEAUTY MINERALS.”
They won’t, though, these New Year’s Resolutionists. They’re lying to themselves, but more importantly, they’re lying to us.
“It’s a whole new calendar,” they think. “Anything is possible now. Before I was held back by the lack of a new calendar, but look at me now. I am INVINCIBLE. The new calendar radiates STRENGTH and BRILLIANCE into my BRAIN.”
“No longer am I the person who consumed so much vodka on New Year’s Eve that it passed out and had to be scraped off a London street and hurled head first into the back of a taxi. It is a NEW YEAR and I am NEW.”
They’re not, though. They are the same chocolate-scoffing, sofa-sitting slob-monkeys that they were during the old calendar. So they’ll fail miserably and sink their tracksuit-clad buttocks back into that greying chair by mid-January, sick with grief about their failed missions, having abandoned all hope of supermodel physiques.
But until then it’s going to be your problem, because you’re going to have to hear about every bead of mince-pie sweat that has dripped from their foreheads, every cigarette they haven’t smoked and every glass of wine they’ve valiantly turned down.
They’ll probably post about it on Facebook, they’ll almost definitely tweet it and you can bet that they’ll say it into your face so often you’ll have to start voicing some reluctant noises of encouragement.
You won’t ask, no one ever asks. They just tell you. I wish they wouldn’t.