Like most of the world I went into January with so much unfounded confidence about the ‘new and improved’ me, someone who reads Tolstoy and listens to Mozart in their spare time: a modern day Audrey Hepburn. Unfortunately it’s safe to say that I’ve fallen off the self-improvement train and stopped off at familiar ground: lazy with a dash of stupid. I’ve broken every single one of my resolutions and January isn’t even over yet, perhaps there’s time to make a few more mistakes before the month ends.
I was sat in a state of self pity, contemplating my many failures whilst shoving half a buttered bagel into my mouth when I realised that I’m the one at fault. Not because I didn’t achieve what I set out to do but because I was too focused on my faults. Too busy letting Cosmopolitan tell me I need a better sex life or a job with a 6 figure salary and hate-watching mindless television shows filled with the rich and beautiful, designed to make us feel insecure.
Here’s my new mantra: don’t make naive, unattainable goals: I’ll never be a millionaire, lose 10lbs or travel round the world in 80 days. All I want to do is marathon ‘The Good Wife’ and eat Thai food with a glass of Pinot in hand. I might not be Mother Theresa or Jennifer Lawrence: I worry too much and have an arse the size of a Ford Focus, know nothing about politics and can’t name any of the US states. Self-improvement’s over-rated anyway: it’s self-acceptance that’s the key.