Twenties: January 1st

Bringing in the new year of January 2023 has felt spectacularly calm in the best of ways. I do not feel pressure that it has to be outstanding, that a hangover is a sign of triumph, nor that I need to be a different person. I am neither giving up sweets nor subscribing to a new yoga religion intent on making a pilgrimage to the perfect downward dog.

Last year I cried, I cried a lot. That was both New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. I went to bed at 9.30pm with a sick feeling entrenched deeply in my stomach. On the 1st of January I went on a long walk with my parents, similar echoes to the lockdown routine of the same point of 2021. It was not thrilling. Categorically I detest New years. Too many resolutions and too many gym memberships bought which will sit unused after January 20th par the reoccurring direct debit the unfortunate participant has locked themselves into for the foreseeable. The abstinence and puritan rejection of all fun and debauchery is dull and is never destined to last. Small changes would be more preferable.

This new years was delightful in every way. I was not at home, a break similar to Centre Parcs with lots of book reading, walks, dogs, potatoes, Posca pens, people I do and don’t know. I’m very grateful to have these people in my life and the invite extended my way, it’s the best entry into January in a solid ten years. Many thanks and zero resolutions are extended to them.