There is no glossing over it – January sucks. It is depressing in every sense of the word – a time when you must force feed yourself broccoli, drag yourself to the overcrowded gym and opt to take the stairs like this is the ‘new you’ whilst depriving yourself of all of your favourite things, namely, nicotine, alcohol, caffeine and fun. It’s shit.
January 7 was the first day back at work for many and – as I was delighted to read as I sandwiched myself onto the train this morning – is the date when most people file for divorce. There is a reason for this – people are really hungry and really thirsty and therefore ratty – which it seems, translates to divorce. Understandable. I know that I want to kill pretty much everyone after suffering the insane hunger experienced after force feeding yourself every type of carbohydrate that you can get your hands on over Christmas, and then returning to work and a diet of… soup.
An additional reason to be depressed is that people everywhere just seem so bloody chipper. Jabbering on about resolutions whilst downing water like it tastes delicious, talking about how important it is to hydrate and the benefits for your metabolism. You are boring! I know the benefits of water – I am nearly 30 – but try and convince me that it tastes good and expect me to zone out for a second whilst I mentally violently assault you in my head.
I understand the concept of a fresh start and in my head I want one too – out with the old in with the new, this year will be MY year, all those clichés. However, after several years of starting out with unrivalled positivity, this time I know that I am destined for failure. Let me explain…
I may be able to put down the tobacco for a few months but alas, as soon as the sun starts shining and a music festival beckons, I will be rolling up and puffing away like the best of them.
I might be drinking nothing but soda water on nights out throughout January but I am 100% positive that roll on February 1 I will be double fisting double whiskey and cokes and drinking to forget like I have done ever since the clock struck midnight all those years ago and I turned 18.
This year is supposed to be the year that I finally achieve all of the career goals and professional recognition that I deserve – however, in the back of my mind I know that when faced with my annual review, my feeble requests for a pay rise/ promotion/ my own telephone will all fall on deaf ears and I will return to my desk knowing that my presence is barely acknowledged let alone appreciated.
The question I ask is, why do we Londoners kid ourselves? As I angrily queue up for the cross-trainer at my gym this evening amid a sea of eager beavers who won’t be seen again post- January 16, I wonder why we bother with this false enthusiasm for the year to come. Although the strongest amongst us may well make it through January, I have no doubt that the majority of Londoners will be reaching for the wine next week, finding themselves in McDonalds at 5am on a Sunday morning and waking up in bed beside a stranger before we know it. Let’s see how long we last.
Photo by David Bleasdale courtesy of Flickr