My Facebook is currently a running list of hundreds upon hundreds of New Year’s Resolutions.
For the last few days, I’ve trudged my way through pledges to getting fit, learning French, losing weight, finding God – of many variations – learning guitar, falling in love, growing vegetables, Tweeting less, reading more, and mastering the art of Giant Knitting (you’ll have to look that one up).
It’s exhausting.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love a fresh start as much as anyone.
I’m the queen of announcing that I’m never drinking again (whilst battling a hangover), training for a marathon (after bikini shopping), or giving myself a budget (after dropping $650 in the Sheridan outlet store).
Nothing makes me feel better than big, fat, bold, public declarations of self-improvement. It’s half the battle.
So it is without judgement that I’ve scrolled through the New Testament of 2017 resolutions across my social media.
I’ve marvelled at these little beacons of light, glimpses of the New And Improved You waving from the horizon. Glittery promises of future success. A light at the end of the festive-season-tunnel as you try to decide whether the leftover ham in the fridge is still OK to eat.
And yet, these bold New Year’s Resolutions all have one thing in common: they will probably never happen. Or, if they do, it will be after a few fails first.