Day 15: New Year's Resolution Rant
Before I start on this post, I would like to preface everything I'm about to say with this statement:
I love you and I'm not judging you.
And one big, huge, fat BOCTAOE.
So it's the beginning of January. This means, as is has always meant, one thing.
Now, in general, I don't really have a problem with the concept of resolutions. Heck, I've made a few of 'em myself, in my day. Do I think they're to most effective way of setting a goal you can stick to? No I do not, but they are less harmful than, say, a drunk one-armed man attempting to juggle flaming chainsaws.
My problem is that they are all (boctaoe) the same resolution:
Get in shape.
Now being healthy and getting in shape is a perfectly fine thing to do. Laudable, even. But when I see the stampede of Facebook updates and hear the long oaths sworn by friends and family, promising on their firstborn's soul that this year, THIS year, they're really going to do it... I am unimpressed. (Especially you, Mom. Don't go vowing on my soul about any of that.)
Partially it's because I think people just do it because it's "the thing to do." We all thank Aunt Sally for the socks she gave us for Christmas, even though they're made out of Yak Fur and give us toe herpes, we all pretend that every baby we are presented with is adorable even if it looks like the deformed lovechild of a naked mole rat and a sea pig, and we all go on a diet in January. It's cultural. As with many things that we do "because we do," I find myself on the skeptical side.
Honestly, though, I think most of the reason it irks me is because that used to be me. Every year, feverishly scribbling down health resolutions in my journals. Seriously, take a look at my journals from ages 11-21. EVERY entry is A. a cryptic reference to some family fight that is never explained, i.e., "Cassi is a boogerhead! The END!"; B. a painfully detailed passage describing a tortuously mundane encounter with whichever acne-riddled bundle of teen hormone I was currently pining for, and then a painstaking analysis of every breath of said mundane encounter ("Today, I was sitting on the field and he came over and sat on the grass next to me. He started telling me about another girl he likes. He said she's blonde and tiny and cute but what he likes most about her is that she's so genuine. I was so annoyed that I started picking grass off the field and dropping it down the back of his shirt. He started throwing grass back at me. We ended up having a massive mud fight. I think this means we're going to get married! Do you think this 'other girl' is just a code? I'm pretty sure he secretly loves ME.") Or C. an exhaustive, heartfelt vow of how I would never, ever touch another brownie again, if only God would tap me with his magical metabolism stick and make me thin. Or, not even thin. "Just NORMAL," I'd write. "Just not such a fat whale."
And then the promises, I'd write to myself:
"I will ONLY ("only" underlined three times) drink water and eat apples for the next THREE days!!!"
"I will walk TWO MILES every day!"
"NO SUGAR!"
"If I don't lose twenty pounds by March, I will ALWAYS be a FAT UNLOVABLE LOSER!!! Must stick to diet."
"If I don't lose fifty pounds by October, I will kill myself."
I wrote these things with tears in my eyes and conviction in my heart, and I meant them. Some of them, I even kept (although I didn't lose 50 pounds by October, and obviously I'm still around.)
Starting off the year with an invigorating round of self-hatred never worked well for me, and I don't really think it does for anyone. Now, it's entirely possible that most people make weight-loss resolutions without any self-loathing whatsoever, and in theory, I understand that. But when I see people's public vows to lose 30 pounds in 3 months, or a dress size by Valentine's day, I feel defensive. Defensive of my past self, who spent so long caught in a downward spiral of shame and failure, defensive of your own inner child who is beautiful, priceless, and worthy of nourishing.
My own body issues aside, though, there is another problem with this whole resolution business:
Weight loss resolutions are the only ones I see.
Is losing weight really the only thing worth dedicating your time to?
How about resolving to read more great novels?
How about resolving to repair a lost friendship?
How about improving an art, learning a skill, strengthening a marriage, deep-conditioning your hair more often?
How about just ONE person with a goal other than wearing smaller pants?
Ok fine I did technically find one but it was after I'd already started composing this blog post in my head. Shout out to you, Jolie. You're the bomb.
This year, for only the second year in my remembered life, I am not making any weight-related resolutions. Why does that feel like making a stand? Maybe it's only standing up to myself.
In this year, I resolve to unapologetically love myself. I resolve to give myself what I need to feel nourished, whether that be a spinach salad, a long walk, a brownie, or two hours of solitude. I resolve to defend my right to write, and to pursue with passion and diligence the things that make me happy. This year, I resolve to have the best year I've ever had.
I hope you'll resolve to share it with me.
Thank you for reading, and a happy (much belated) New Year!
I love you and I'm not judging you.
And one big, huge, fat BOCTAOE.
ON WITH THE RANT!
So it's the beginning of January. This means, as is has always meant, one thing.
Now, in general, I don't really have a problem with the concept of resolutions. Heck, I've made a few of 'em myself, in my day. Do I think they're to most effective way of setting a goal you can stick to? No I do not, but they are less harmful than, say, a drunk one-armed man attempting to juggle flaming chainsaws.
My problem is that they are all (boctaoe) the same resolution:
Get in shape.
Now being healthy and getting in shape is a perfectly fine thing to do. Laudable, even. But when I see the stampede of Facebook updates and hear the long oaths sworn by friends and family, promising on their firstborn's soul that this year, THIS year, they're really going to do it... I am unimpressed. (Especially you, Mom. Don't go vowing on my soul about any of that.)
Partially it's because I think people just do it because it's "the thing to do." We all thank Aunt Sally for the socks she gave us for Christmas, even though they're made out of Yak Fur and give us toe herpes, we all pretend that every baby we are presented with is adorable even if it looks like the deformed lovechild of a naked mole rat and a sea pig, and we all go on a diet in January. It's cultural. As with many things that we do "because we do," I find myself on the skeptical side.
Honestly, though, I think most of the reason it irks me is because that used to be me. Every year, feverishly scribbling down health resolutions in my journals. Seriously, take a look at my journals from ages 11-21. EVERY entry is A. a cryptic reference to some family fight that is never explained, i.e., "Cassi is a boogerhead! The END!"; B. a painfully detailed passage describing a tortuously mundane encounter with whichever acne-riddled bundle of teen hormone I was currently pining for, and then a painstaking analysis of every breath of said mundane encounter ("Today, I was sitting on the field and he came over and sat on the grass next to me. He started telling me about another girl he likes. He said she's blonde and tiny and cute but what he likes most about her is that she's so genuine. I was so annoyed that I started picking grass off the field and dropping it down the back of his shirt. He started throwing grass back at me. We ended up having a massive mud fight. I think this means we're going to get married! Do you think this 'other girl' is just a code? I'm pretty sure he secretly loves ME.") Or C. an exhaustive, heartfelt vow of how I would never, ever touch another brownie again, if only God would tap me with his magical metabolism stick and make me thin. Or, not even thin. "Just NORMAL," I'd write. "Just not such a fat whale."
And then the promises, I'd write to myself:
"I will ONLY ("only" underlined three times) drink water and eat apples for the next THREE days!!!"
"I will walk TWO MILES every day!"
"NO SUGAR!"
"If I don't lose twenty pounds by March, I will ALWAYS be a FAT UNLOVABLE LOSER!!! Must stick to diet."
"If I don't lose fifty pounds by October, I will kill myself."
I wrote these things with tears in my eyes and conviction in my heart, and I meant them. Some of them, I even kept (although I didn't lose 50 pounds by October, and obviously I'm still around.)
Starting off the year with an invigorating round of self-hatred never worked well for me, and I don't really think it does for anyone. Now, it's entirely possible that most people make weight-loss resolutions without any self-loathing whatsoever, and in theory, I understand that. But when I see people's public vows to lose 30 pounds in 3 months, or a dress size by Valentine's day, I feel defensive. Defensive of my past self, who spent so long caught in a downward spiral of shame and failure, defensive of your own inner child who is beautiful, priceless, and worthy of nourishing.
My own body issues aside, though, there is another problem with this whole resolution business:
Weight loss resolutions are the only ones I see.
Is losing weight really the only thing worth dedicating your time to?
How about resolving to read more great novels?
How about resolving to repair a lost friendship?
How about improving an art, learning a skill, strengthening a marriage, deep-conditioning your hair more often?
How about just ONE person with a goal other than wearing smaller pants?
Ok fine I did technically find one but it was after I'd already started composing this blog post in my head. Shout out to you, Jolie. You're the bomb.
This year, for only the second year in my remembered life, I am not making any weight-related resolutions. Why does that feel like making a stand? Maybe it's only standing up to myself.
In this year, I resolve to unapologetically love myself. I resolve to give myself what I need to feel nourished, whether that be a spinach salad, a long walk, a brownie, or two hours of solitude. I resolve to defend my right to write, and to pursue with passion and diligence the things that make me happy. This year, I resolve to have the best year I've ever had.
I hope you'll resolve to share it with me.
Thank you for reading, and a happy (much belated) New Year!
You go girl. Stupid weight loss resolutions!! Check out "My one word" by Mike Ashcraft and Rachel Olsen for a really healthy (mentally and spiritually) way to start a new year.
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