My resolutions for 2010 were simple enough to start with.
1. Eat Less.
2. Move More.
Familiar and strangely comforting words, whose regular appearances in the annual intentions list have burnt themselves, like a much-anticipated but ultimately disappointing cigarette, into the damp fabric of my adult life.
During a particularly fraught game of pool on 2 January, I was compelled to make a further resolution.
3. Swear Less (it appears that, contrary to my previous thinking, the ‘c’ word is NOT the new ‘f’ word, at least not in the Peak District, and certainly not in some of the latter term’s more elaborate contexts).
To which, after a heartfelt pub-based exchange, was added
4. Have more sex.
And that was it. The floodgates were opened and I was overwhelmed by good intentions.
5. Procure meaningful and well paid job (possibly using term ‘career’ to refer to same).
6. Move to groovy yet inexpensive houseshare south of river.
7. Travel to somewhere outside the M25 alone to prove mettle, ability, and validity of existence.
8. Conduct underwear purge.
9. Stop obsessively comparing self to others.
10. Give self a break.
11. Step up and stop shirking responsibilities. Nothing in this world is free. If you want something, you have to work for it. No-one will rescue you. Stop whingeing and get on with it, you big-haired loser.
So far, so resolute. Certainly a list I wouldn’t have been able to consider until around two weeks ago. As a recent newcomer to our nation’s proud table of dole scum, I now appear to have plenty of time to examine my life and resolutions, and, with any luck, find an ingenious way of combining the two.
A blank slate. A clean canvas. A snow-covered path as yet unblemished by ill-conceived snow angels in the central reservation. Unfortunately, I’m beginning to realise that this year’s resolutions don’t appear to be hugely compatible with either my finances or each other.
Consider, for example, that resolution 6 (moving house) relies rather heavily on 5 (work), while both contribute to 11 (taking control of destiny). However, both 5 and 6 are neatly scuppered by 7 (travel) which, importantly, might ultimately fuel 9 and 10 (self esteem).
Furthermore, if I’m going to be forced to do 2, then 1 seems unnecessarily cruel. And while 2 indubitably makes me look and feel better (and may of course encourage 4), how am I to reconcile this time-consuming activity with 5, 6 and 7? Unless, of course, I combine 1, 2 and 7 and take February off to scale the north face of the Eiger solo and carrying only water biscuits for sustenance. However, trying to multiply that little sum without the consolation of foul language (3) is a trial that no journalist should be expected to endure.
When it comes down to it, the only resolution I can really achieve, right here, right now, today, is 8. And in my current emotional state, I’m not sure I’m even up to that. There are bras in that drawer which, despite lying unworn for years, I feel closer to than to my parents. There are piles of knickers in four different sizes, kept back against ‘fat’, ‘thin’, ‘sexy,’ and ‘harpoon alert’ days, that I’m just not sure I can live without.
Luckily, I did have the foresight to save one resolution in case of emergency.
12. Write blog.
Done. La la. Go me.
Writing a blog is yet another one of those things I’ve been meaning to do for a while (others include walking the Compostela De Santiago, jumping into a moving car – check – and learning to swing dance). Obviously, I’ve missed the boat on that period where personal blogs were cutting-edge, buzzy, popular and desirable; but being on trend, the ball or time have never been numbered among my distinctive traits.
The main aim of the blog is to get me writing. I’m not going to be as foolhardy as to make any commitments as to frequency of posts (unrealistic), content (unpredictable) or quality (dubious; depends on mood, circumstances, substances etc.). If you like it, let me know; if not, stay silent. I am a delicate petal and I bruise easily.