Is she gone yet? Is January out of earshot, so we can talk behind her back?
Before December is even over, I get excited about hanging out with January. I start making lists well before the turn of the calendar, to be ready when she comes. I plan out all the fun things weāre going to do together: exercise, self-care, healthy eating, budgeting, family time, career goals.
But January is a false friend.
Every year, we wait at the door for January to arrive at midnight. We shout and toast each other and occasionally even grab someone nearby for a kiss because when youāre so happy and filled with hope, it seems reasonable to grab a stranger and surprise them with a peck on the cheek.
January comes dressed to the hilt for the party. Sheās silver and sparkly; her hair is luminous and her makeup is flawless. She feels fresh and new compared to the long, drawn-out holiday season that started one minute after Halloween and has finally concluded with heaps of wrapping paper unceremoniously chucked into the recycling bin and dry pine needles piled neatly on the living room floor. January comes with promise and hope. Each year, I welcome her with clear-eyed positivity and cheer.
And for the first five days or so, January and I are besties. Iām saving money by meal planning! Iām waking up a little earlier and writing my morning pages! Each night I settle down with a cup of herbal tea and my self-care journal. Iām moisturizing! Iām bringing a book to bed instead of doom scrolling! On the fifth of any given year, if you ask me, Iāll tell you Iām killing it ā this may be my best year ever!
Itās around the 6th or 7th of the month that I faintly remember that Iāve never stuck to New Yearās Resolutions. Ever. Still, I rally. I tell myself, āIām not really making resolutions. These are just my goals. These are just my new habits Iām establishing for myself.ā Somewhere on the 8th or 9th I realize Iāve merely replaced the word āresolutionsā with other words that mean the same thing. Iām a living, breathing example of failure, with thesaurus-like tendencies. I am fooling no one.
My mood wavers, but I push through it. I know how to give myself a pep talk. I still believe January is worth it. My life will be so much better with January at my side.
Thatās when January hits me with a punch to the gut. She brings cold and the ice and days on end with no evidence of the sun. By the middle of the month, I feel like maybe we should be concerned. Did the sun burn out? Should we call someone? Will we ever see it again?
Thatās January for me. I start at the mountaintop, my face tilted upward to the glorious blue sky, but 30 days later, Iām tumbling gracelessly to the bottom, my limbs sticking out at odd, awkward angles.
I fall for it every year: New Year, new me! Fresh start! New attitude! But the cycle continues, over and over. What starts out as a beautiful friendship devolves into a toxic relationship. In just a few short weeks, my confidence is shot, and words like ābehindā and āfailureā creep into my psyche.
Sorry January, but Iām happy to see you go. Iām tired of kneeling before a false god with arbitrary expectations. I just end up feeling bad about myself.
This is why Iām happy to see January go. Iām rushing toward the welcoming embrace of February. Sheās offering hearts, candy, love, and chubby baby cupids. February comes bearing red roses, fluffy teddy bears, and chocolates.
January isnāt my friend. Iām not sure she ever wanted to be friends. Sheās the mean girl of all the months, chewing me up, spitting me out, then moving on without so much as a good-bye. Sheās trampled me with her silver boots, but sheāll be back. She always comes back. Iāll be there to greet her, too, having forgotten the previous 11 months of this endless, cruel cycle. Come the end of December, Iāll be waiting at the door at midnight, my eyes twinkly and naive with hope and giddy positivity, ready to throw the door wide at midnight and welcome her in once more.
