Moderation in all things, mainly cake

Whether you celebrate secular New Year or not, in the UK, you can hardly ignore it. While I have always been happy to embrace Christmas so long as no-one is going to make me kneel in worship at a Nativity scene, I struggle to enjoy New Year’s Eve.
Whereas at Rosh Hashanah, we prepare a delicious meal and sit down to savour it slowly, at New Year’s Eve, the race is on as to who can ingest the most alcohol the fastest. It’s not about having a nice glass of wine to help you relax at a party or to complement your meal —it’s just about getting absolutely blotto. And, instead of gathering with those you know and love, the focus is on who you’re going to kiss at the stroke of midnight. Years ago, at a fancy-dress night in a pub, a strange man leered towards me as I tried to pass in a doorway, slurring: “G’is a kiss, love,” (he really could hardly stand). “No, I don’t know you!” I responded as I jinked to one side in avoidance. “Butiz Nooyearzeeve!” he said. As if a specific date should make me want to snog a complete stranger (my preferred date for snogging random men, should you want to line up, is actually August 14th…).
But the element I hate most about new year — above the determined drunkenness and stranger-snogging — is the idea of New Year’s resolutions.
As a pessimist, it doesn’t feel as if resolutions offer me inspiration and hope for the year ahead; they feel like a sharp commentary on my failures and shortcomings from the year gone by. If I resolve, say: Go to the gym three times a week, it reminds me that this year, I went only once a week and that even that was a challenge. If I add to the list: Get up at 6am and write for an hour before breakfast — all it does is shame me with how bad I am at seizing the day.
So, in a spirit of borrowed positivity (I have none of my own, but The Husband has agreed to loan some of his as his levels of optimism are frankly annoying and need to be dampened down a tad), I am offering my revised approach to New Year’s resolutions. They are not positive by his standards, of course, because I have had to dilute all that irritating Pollyannaish enthusiasm in a ratio of 1:10 to my negativity. They aim not to inspire but to be achievable, embracing the spirit of self-acceptance rather than self-improvement.
l Eat chocolate when you feel depressed. With its winning combination of sugar, caffeine and phenylethylamine (the chemical that replicates the feeling of being in love),
chocolate is hard to beat. Cheaper and faster than therapy. Fewer side-effects than anti-depressants (though obviously overdoing it might nudge you towards Type 2 diabetes so take it easy).
l Go to the gym once a week. I’ve been doing this for two years so I know there’s a better than even chance I can manage this one. I don’t harbour any illusions that I will suddenly start enjoying it, but I’m prepared to soldier on as even I can see the benefits.
l Don’t tidy the study. The chaos in my study has now reached the point where I begin to suspect that an inter-galactic super-villain is fomenting a sinister alternate universe in there. I avoid going in other than to retrieve something from the printer. The thought of tackling the innumerable piles of miscellaneous paperwork makes me feel sick. I will work at the kitchen table.
l Bake to cheer yourself up. I waste a lot of time agonising about work, mired in self-loathing about the lack of progress on my next novel, writing scathing notes to myself when I read back what I’ve written: What is point of this scene?? NB check repet — first section rambly — rewrite! But when I bake, I just relax and enjoy it. If it’s not perfect, so what? Even average homemade bread is still nicer than a supermarket loaf. And I love giving much of it away (the window-cleaner was very happy to receive a ginger cake from the freezer this morning).
l Do some work sometimes. There we go — I hope I have offered the least inspirational injunction of all. The Husband has days when he is so busy, he barely has time to eat half a sandwich at his desk (but he still loves his job — I told you he was annoyingly positive). I can let an entire hour go by, gazing out of the window, letting my mind float free. Writing is a peculiar business. It can look as if nothing is happening for an age, then I spring into action and the words start streaming onto the page as if they have only been waiting for the cork to be pulled to release them. But when I work too little, I am prone to depression — so for me the injunction to ‘Do some work sometimes’ is the perfect balance.
I wish you all a healthy but otherwise adequate New Year.