‘January is bleak enough without lobbing unrealistic expectations upon myself
As we hurtle towards 2019, I have already dodged several recipes for smoothies on social media. It is a veritable ‘Groundhog Day’ version of my 2017 New Year’s. I will also have been privy to several ads for fitness garb and equipment. Know your audience Instagram… I’m not it.
There was a time when a New Year’s spent at home would have felt like a form of corporal punishment. When the lure of a strapless number which I slipped into and bottomless beverages quaffed pressed between patrons in a crowded establishment was my idea of a good time. Nowadays, pretty much everything I wear has straps. Pipe down Janet, it’s not some budget ‘Fifty Shades’ scenario. More, it’s just, well… gravity.
Working from home also means slim pickings when it comes to festive party invites. Which, has its pros and cons. My ensemble is more of the flannel variety: so far so winning. But I do pang for a rousing chorus of ‘So, here it is, Merry Christmas…’ with work Janet after a few Cinzanos and a rubbery turkey dinner.
I do however get to avoid the aforementioned rubbery fare in lieu of a main course of an entire baked Camembert. I take mine studded with garlic and sprigs of rosemary and an entire French stick for dipping purposes, in case you wondered? (You didn’t, but, I assure you the combination would make angels weep! As does my breath the morning after from my overly liberal hand with the garlic.)
Resolutions are tedious. So much so, I have decided to stick to my tried and tested formula of not entertaining them in the slightest. January is bleak enough without lobbing unrealistic expectations upon myself. I get enough of that on a regular Monday. It also seems slightly ludicrous to impose such demands during the post-Christmas comedown. Not to mention the sugar one. The beginning of the year should be viewed as a transition as opposed to a restriction; a chance to softly coddle ourselves into the first few weeks; like new-born foals, stumbling blindly into the unknown…trailing the remains of a selection box in their wake.
No, this is the time to tread softly. Very softly. Maybe, even an extra layer of flannel softly. After all, 2018 was a doozy. Twelve months of an entirely mixed bag of highs and lows; both here and across the globe. It stands to reason that I am therefore approaching 2019 with a hefty dose of side-eye. I am unsure as to how it will unfold and reveal itself. Primarily, because its sister proved to be a pretty messy candidate overall.
Therefore, the only way I feel I can truly close the door on this year, while leaving it slightly ajar for the coming one (albeit with the door chain left on) is, to party like a parent.
There are a couple of definite pre-requisites to maximise the Parent Party. Firstly, all food must be in miniature form. Vol au vents, quiches, sticky cocktail sausages… you get the gist. Cutlery is in the form of fingers and all mini culinary delights (translation: two for €6 in SuperValu) must be consumed, parked in front of the TV during a marathon viewing of some of the great franchises of yore; Back to the Future,
Indiana Jones etc.
Attire is strictly stretchy and contains various patterns of plaid. The gauntlet will be thrown inrelation to the dregs left at the bottom of the tin of Roses. A ‘Challenge Anneka’ gauntlet if you will. Where I will see it as a public service to drain the unloved (coffee and the ones with the texture of tree bark) remains so as to properly dispose of said tin.
At some stage, my husband will produce a questionable array of sandwiches in his bid to clear the fridge of any remnants of the festive season. Which will cause us all to pull apart such offerings to examine the contents. No one needs a rogue sprout knocking about between layers of Kerrygold.
We will attempt a boardgame. Because my children are evidently masochists, they will reach for Monopoly. It will not end well and we will remember why it was that Game Night Fridays were banned. We will wheedle and cajole our kids into staying awake to see the clock turn twelve. They never make it past 11. Which, sees us all in bed for approximately 11.05pm. The first knowledge I have of the ushering in of the New Year is when I am awakened by the party across from us cheering and wishing each other the customary exclamation. Swiftly followed by the cat torpedoing up the stairs and onto our bed as a result of the fizzing and cracking fireworks.
Happy New Year! May 2019 be kind to us all!