I think I’m a hypocrite.
Two days ago, I was sneering at all the joggers I saw on January 1st. It’s a though the new year seems to spark something primal in us. Practically everyone wants to see changes in their lives. They want to be a “new person.” (At least for a minute.) Gym memberships soar. Diets begin. Charities are suddenly bloated with donations of dusty old clutter and worn out clothing. Out with the old. In with the new. I’m going to be a better person this year, just you wait and see.
And then…the second week of January rolls in. The kids are back in school. Our old patterns re-emerge. Pizza is easier to bring home than vegetables. Who has time to cook? Junk mail piles back up on the table. Life returns to the status quo.
I hate the idea of NewYear’s resolutions because I know that most of the time they end in failure. When you struggle with depression, it’s never a good idea to set yourself up for even MORE failure. I like the idea of everyone changing for the better. I just know that it takes more than fluffy hopes and dreams to rebuild a rusted interior.
But here I am, blogging in my bathrobe, thinking that maybe, just maybe, I can defy the statistics. Maybe I can rename my hypocrisy? I won’t call them New Year’s resolutions. Oh no! I’m making life changes. That’s completely different!
And it is.
And it isn’t.
I know I shouldn’t make the same tired choices. I know they won’t make me happy. But it’s soooooo much easier to do what comes naturally, what I’ve been doing all along. It’s easier to snack on sweets, to self-medicate with junk food, rather than make a proper meal. It’s easier to read books than to write them. It’s easier to leave the laundry in the basket than to fold it and put it away. It’s easier to coast thoughtlessly through life rather than make conscious choices about where I’m going and what I want to do with my time. My inner voice has been bombarding me with nasty comments and I have to remind myself to take baby steps. Teeny. Tiny. Baby steps.