Have we finally accepted that Dry January is a con? A myth we’ve been sold that January 1 is the date in which we shall awake reborn with unshakable willpower and infallible conviction to be better at everything. Thinner, teetotal, cleverer, kinder, more eco-friendly with a new 6am meditation routine and bedtime journalling habit. It’s a fallacy which makes us doomed to fail and in turn filled with more self loathing than before.
I’ve never been one for setting super-specific goals, preferring instead to aim for vague broad strokes that allow me to remain blissfully unaccountable. Best to not get into debt, try not to mess up at work, cut back on eating peanut butter from the jar — that sort of thing. This year I will confess, a recent bout of anxiety and existential crisis prompted me to purchase a “wellness journal”. The sort that provides you with daily affirmations (“you are a human woman and that is enough”) and reminds you to do things that allow you to exist like breathe and drink water. But I ordered it too late and it won’t arrive until late-January, by which time I’ll be in full breakdown mode and there’ll be no saving me.
