According to a report published in the Huffington Post last week, 54% of New Year Resolutions are broken within six months. So why are us Brits still setting ourselves up for failure?
Since mid-November I’ve been bombarded by the blue-eyed radiance of Cameron Diaz and other celebrities asking me if I’ve got a ‘Man Plan B’ for the New Year. Or if I’ll be doing the 5:2 diet with my man. Or whether I’ll try combating sugar addiction, relapse and eat the entire country’s supply of Cadbury’s Creme Eggs?
No, editors everywhere, I have not got a ‘Plan B’ on how to convince someone to date me (or a Plan A for that matter). And no Daily Mail, I don’t think I will be doing the Fast Diet with my man. I’m not sure who this guy is supposed to be, but I know he won’t be mine for long when he sees how hangry I get without snacks.
This year, I won’t be making any resolutions because I’m always going to ditch them. I say I’ll cut down on chocolate, only to feel like I’ve let down myself, the yogi from my newly-purchased exercise video and the Cacao producing nations of Western Africa. You can usually find me on the 5th January sat among a towering pile of sweet wrappers, lollipop sticks and a tear-stained copy of Runner’s World.
Last January, I promised myself that I’d stop procrastinating. Interestingly, I spent a hell of a lot of time in bed during the months that followed.
New Year Resolutions are a type of procrastination in themselves really, aren’t they? Why wait another seven months to start doing something differently when you can start right now?
That’s what I’m doing this year. I’m reverting back to the lively, fun-loving girl I worked so hard to repress through my teens and just being myself. No ‘Plan to find My Man’, no 5:2 diets or 3:4 diets, or whatever the next fad will be. Just the best parts of myself. The old me.
Switch back to Last Friday 2nd January 2015 at 3.27am…
I’m lay in bed, chocolate bear sat on my face, eagerly trying to eat it without using hands.
My tablet is held in the air and displays the question ‘am I autistic?’ on Google Search, followed by links to health quizzes. I’ve always been a keen quizzer.
I’m a bored insomniac, curiously searching the internet to find some inspiration or a deeper meaning to life. Instead, I begin to panic. Is doing Sudoku puzzles over Christmas Dinner to avoid conversation a result of some undiagnosed disorder? Or is it just me being rude and antisocial as my dad suggests?
So that’s it. Right there, I find out there’s a 60% chance that I am on the Autistic Spectrum.
Dear Diary, I don’t want to talk to you either…
Over coffee the next day, I presented the discovery to my dad, his new fiancée and my brother. In response to my worried ramblings, my dad sighed: ‘Sophie, it runs in the family. We all say what we’re thinking before we can filter it. Just say it how it is.’
I’m certain that was a subtle reference to my grandmother who makes the point of telling everyone they’ve put on weight at family events.
This made me realise that perhaps I’m not the only one responsible for my uneasiness in social situations. Maybe my parents sat me in front of Child’s Play in my toddling years or never read to me at bedtimes like good mummies and daddies should. Or maybe it’s because most of the time, I just couldn’t give a shit.
I’m leaning towards the latter conclusion.
“No mother, I really don’t need to hear about your failed trip to Aldi for Gingerbread Houses.
“I’m not even that bothered that you’re getting your car valeted.
“I don’t care who’s doing what (or who), who’s left their wife and lives as a woman now, who microwaved their goldfish and faces a week in prison”.
So that’s the conclusion, I just can’t pretend to be interested. My eyes glaze over. I scan bookshelves over said person’s shoulder. Plot my ideal route across Eastern Europe. Or my escape to the Australian Outback never to be seen again…
Priyam Sharma, Gong Meditation will never be calming. The body is programmed to hate loud noises…
Now that I’ve given myself permission to continue eating excessive amounts of chocolate, to communicate with only those who interest me and to do as many Sudoku puzzles as I like, I’m also capable of resisting the urge to take up Laughter Therapy, acrobatics or Naturist travel.
I’m actually quite an interesting person anyway without forcibly signing myself up for the sailing society, which I did, and paid £57 to join, and never EVER attended last semester. Sundays are meant for morning coffee and idly singing along to Songs of Praise.