Here we are again, January 1st. Every year you roll round, always so full of hope and optimism. Full of dreams and possibility. You are a day like no other, laden with clean eating plans and shiny new gym memberships.
And every year I find myself making the same half-arsed commitments to DO BETTER and BE BETTER. The resolutions don’t change much each year. Eat less. Move more. Maybe take up yoga? Be more grateful. Eat kale.
They’re relatively simple goals. All I really want to do is curb my addiction to Caramello Koalas and not feel the urge to undo the button on my jeans when sitting down.
Yet somehow, every New Year’s Day, I find myself eating something that consists of cheese and carbohydrates while I’m halfway through a Friends marathon when it dawns on me.
I’ve screwed up New Year’s. Again.
Sometimes, it’s just after the clock strikes 12 when someone starts handing around sausage rolls in a much appreciated attempt to soak up the evening’s booze.
Perhaps you have small people yelling at you for attention and all you can muster is a cheese toastie and instructions to please, leave Mummy alone.
Maybe you just had some left over pizza in the fridge or some beautiful Angel went down to the local chicken shop and the Food Gods have blessed you with a serving of hot chips.
You know what, maybe you just forgot your resolutions. For the fifth year in a row. Is there anything wrong what that? Is there?
You meant well. You tried hard. You told everyone your resolutions and you really, truly meant to keep them.
Will 2016 be the year I start working out consistently? Will I finally achieve my lofty fitness goal of being able to run five kilometres? Will I do the City to Surf and post a series of smug fitspo photos on my Instagram feed?