New Years resolutions are like an uncomfortable pair of heels.
You pick them out with good intentions, but as they continue to make your day-to-day life hard to navigate they end up tossed in a corner, silently mocking you for your inability to make them work.
I’ve always been a firm believer that New Year’s Eve is a time for big earrings, not big life changers.
In fact, a recent ABC article lamented that only eight per cent of those who set New Year’s goals actually achieve them. According to science, we’re all just setting ourselves up to fail, which is why I’ve never entertained the fantasy of setting New Year’s goals.
Until last year, 2015, when I made three New Year’s resolutions for the very first time in my life.
And I kept every single one of them.
Somehow, I managed to be part of that insane eight percent and, as the sky filled with fireworks and my phone flicked over from 2015 to 2016, I felt a flutter of happiness in my stomach when I realized my year long goals all had a smug little tick beside them.
(I mean, it could have been all those jelly beans I insisted on dropping into my champagne during the night, but I feel like my mother would prefer I say it was ‘happiness’.)
My desire to jump on the resolution bandwagon happened at the very tale end of 2014, on a stinking hot day spent languishing in Far North Queensland. To be honest, the word ‘languishing’ is actually code for ‘sulking’ because that’s exactly what I was doing.