Happy New Year. It’s the (Piper) day of the 11 Christmas and the fucking great holiday is coming to an end. A “fuck it!” mince pie. A “Fuck!” Third martini. A “fuck it!” 5 a.m. Uber to the depths of Brooklyn As the new year begins to taper off, we naturally look into our crystal ball for the future and make decisions that set us on the path to our new selves Determination. The new me is usually harder, better, faster, stronger: essentially the old you, with less fucking.
Raven, what is your resolution? I hear you begging. I’m slowly moving towards a new me; this is the first thing I eat for breakfast that isn’t technically a pudding, nor is it specifically designed for exercise. My decision last year was to more palm trees – a lifestyle mantra rather than going to a garden center – but my husband offered to take me to the Arboretum at Kew Gardens instead of visiting the Sphinx. This year, I tried again to phase out sweatpants, a lockdown hangover I couldn’t get over because they were so tight. I have a feeling the crow I want to be wears slacks, more tailoring, he might even be partial to ties? But now I’m still annoyed by the cotton prison of real pants. I’m also learning to drive, which not only allows me to get farther palms, but also feels a bit Kenickie. Win-win.
And you? In pursuit of a newer, shinier version of yourself, how many have you been turned upside down in your life? What are you reducing to maintain more presence? How are you reducing screen time? I say this every year, but trying to learn something new — a hobby, a skill, a language people try out a lot — is a lot easier than looking at the general “bad things” in your life and trying to root them out. (I’ll be practicing parallel parking while committing to skincare.) I just think that life is full of negative events — wars, violence, political unrest, unstable climates — and the last thing you deserve is punishment. You don’t need a tough regime while we’re going through one; you don’t have to feel guilty every time you pick up the phone, eat dairy, or forget to call mom. It’s a bit of a competition, and I think we’re all part of the problem; we’re all in pursuit of a full, almost religious life. I can say, say it from the heart, I want you to be and feel safe and healthy, your self-prescribed flaws don’t need to be adjusted, we all less – good attribute , that humans are inherently (and beautifully) imperfect. I can say at the same time that I wish my jacket didn’t look so borrowed from a little guy, and I wish reading maybe five years later wasn’t so tiring. But maybe these are my own flaws speaking?
