It’s not you, it’s me.
Wait, what am I saying? It’s definitely you. This is going to sound harsh, but seriously, everyone agrees. I just need to be honest with you, because it’s not working out. It never does, does it?
Every year it’s the same. I see you across the Christmas horizon and you make eyes at me. You send me articles about how this is going to be ‘my year’ and tell me about all the amazing things we could do together. We’ll join a gym, maybe I could go to that ballroom dancing class I’ve always wanted to try, or we could spend the weekends walking in the crisp winter sun.
I do try to remind you that this is a load of bullshit, and that every year we just end up in bed together. There’s nothing meaningful about what we have, and you know it. Duvets and leftover Christmas chocolate is our ‘Netflix and chill’. Well maybe ‘Netflix and duvets and leftover Christmas chocolate’ is our ‘Netflix and chill’; you and I do know how to plough through a box set.
Anyway, you’re insistent. ‘It’ll be different this time! You’ll keep your resolutions and I’ll drizzle less, I promise!’ You tell me take my Vitamin D tablets and it’ll be fine. Better than fine, this year we’ll be so good together.
But we’re not are we? I starts almost immediately, the back-tracking. “Oh we don’t have to start on New Year’s Day…” you say, “We’ll just finish that half a bottle of port and the chocolates from your Auntie Pauline.” Before I know it we’ve been together three weeks and all the good gym membership deals have expired. I think about going running but it’s so cold and so bloody dark!
And that’s another thing, every year you bang on about how you’re changing: “the days are getting longer now”. Are they, January, ARE THEY? Cos it doesn’t seem like it to me. What difference does it make to me if sunset is at 15:59 or 16:03? I’M IN THE FUCKING OFFICE ‘TIL FIVE THIRTY!
I’m sorry, I shouldn’t shout. But I’m sick of it. Especially this year, you’ve been worse than usual. You have! Five Mondays you’ve had this year, FIVE MONDAYS? What kind of fucked up shit is that? And there was all the sleet and hail and drizzle – Dry January my arse. I can’t take another day of this, it’s over…
Have I met someone else? What difference does it make?
Yes, you do know him, but it’s none of your business…
Look, it’s just a fling, you know he’s my rebound guy; 28 days and we’re done. Well, 29 sometimes, but I like that about him, he’s unpredictable. He brings me flowers too… snowdrops, crocuses, even the occasional daffodil if he gets his frosts under control. And for a day or two round the middle he’s dead romantic… well, yes that can be quite depressing but…
Look, January, I’m not saying other months are perfect, and God knows I’m not either. But the thing is, you make me feel like shit. And I try to make excuses for you, tell myself I build you up in my head and so of course I’m disappointed. But the thing is, you are the actual worst.
No, I don’t want to look back at the instagram pictures of those two nice sunny days. I just want it be over. I need to move on….
I’d like you to leave now please. I never want to see you again.
Well, okay, yeah, you can call me at Christmas, but I’m not promising anything…