Last New Year’s Eve I was in bed before midnight and up for a run before dawn. I was Ms McSmuggington Smug Face. The smuggest of all the smug joggers in their fancy high-vis leggings they got for Christmas.
Not this year. This year I got drunk. Not just ‘grown-up let’s have a game of Cards Against Humanity for old time’s sake and go to bed after the fireworks’ drunk, but ‘uni student memory-loss spend all your money and forget who you are’ drunk.
I drunkenly boasted to anyone who would listen that night that I was going for an eight mile run the next morning. I truly believed it. I thought I could do anything. I was mistaken. I couldn’t do anything.
I spent the next day on the sofa with my duvet watching film after film, miserably reminiscing on how sprightly and healthy I was this time last year. The next morning I woke up with a throat like a dry sock and my nose full of…stuff.
Today I survived the first day back at work, but it was tough. It was tough eating bog standard porridge and not the sugary shredded wheat I’ve been treating myself to all holiday. It was tough not having a selection box biscuit whenever I damn well fancied.
I skipped the first Bootcamp session of the year tonight, even though my inner Zoe was limbering up going ‘come on, outer Zoe, get your sniffely gross body out there into the cold dark night, this is what you love!’ I just want to button myself up into my duvet cover and stay there for the remainder of the winter.
No I didn’t make a New Year’s Resolution. And maybe I should have.