New Year's Resignation
Quitting smoking never entered into the equation when it came to New Year's resolutions this time around. I know it damages the sperm and causes infertility, leaves you short of breath and drags with it an aroma faintly reminiscent of Dot Cotton's discarded underwear - but I have no intention of giving up simply due to the arrival of 2005.
It's not that I don't want to. In fact, like many of my breed, I really would like to give up; to be able to run more than 500 yards without being forced to retire as if the Athens' heat had taken every last shred of energy; to avoid the accusations of murder every time I light up in my college bar. So why is it, then, that I won't "give giving up a try"?
The straight-up fact of the matter is that New Year's resolutions are one of the least productive methods of changing your behaviour. To all those people who chant, "New Year, new start", as if it were some sort of tantric mantra, I say this: "Bollocks". Plain and simple, unattractive and low-hanging bollocks. There is no magical mysticism, no special significance to this date. The tolling of the midnight bells is merely an automated beep at the beginning of a race; there can be no false starts, no recalls, just the starting of an optimistic stopwatch.
Ultimately, I have no sympathy for anyone striving to maintain their New Age New Year's resolutions. The simple act of resolving demonstrates that there is no true desire to give up smoking, biting your nails, being fat, or urinating on next-door's cat. All that you achieve is the acknowledgement of another of your many vices and bad habits, the feigning of an attempt to cease said habit, the receipt of congratulations and admiration for feigned attempt at a new way of life, a helpless feeling as stress levels peak, and an undignified resumption of the old way of life by the end of January at the very latest.
That said, I did make a couple of self-promises prior to the dampened explosion of fireworks at the London Eye. The first was to help more around the house; not at home, of course - I have parents; but in my chilly little Oxford bachelor shit-hole down the Abingdon Road. Having moved in two hours ago, though, this has yet to begin.
Secondly, I am now striving to be more romantic. Following a particularly unspectacular spell on the Blunkett front, this is much needed, but again has yet to be tested - with term time not fully underway. Anyway, there is probably another article in that so I'll leave it there.
The final and oft recurring resolution is, in itself, the single biggest reason for my cynicism when it comes to the crisp, freshly-turned-over leaves accompanying Auld Lang Syne: to work harder. At the start of each and every term and vacation, as a result of the astounding, previously undiscovered levels of underachievement attained during the previous eight-week 'academic' stint, there comes the self-inflicted cat-o-nine-tails of a vow to up my intellectual game, to dedicate enough, nay, ample time to my work, not to leave everything to the last minute, to plough through the entirety of the reading lists - to do myself justice academically. Or, put simply, to leave the realm of a disinterested 2:2 for the soaring heights of 2:1 Country, complete with Government Happiness Warnings.
Sadly, like a Tory with ambitions in OUSU, such hopes are inevitably futile and short-lived.
It's always the same - as unchanging as the eternal Lord himself. At the time of one's return to the daydreaming spires, the realisation that Matthew's Gospel hasn't been thoroughly ploughed through, that Marx's philosophy remains as much of a mystery as the chin lurking under his beard, that the four essays that required "some rethinking" last term still do, a tinge of regret and shame will emerge. The following few days, called '0th week' in some sort of twisted reference to zero hour, will become a hectic maze of texts, notes and coffee breaks. Just another of life's little stopwatch starting moments.
At least that's the plan. It may start well, getting the first two topics covered, say, but won't last. Friends will return, prompting unintended overly long coffeebreaks and helping to nullify the vow of sobriety afresh every evening. Tutors' meetings will interrupt a steady flow of work, rendering the hour beforehand worthless - obviously. To top it all off, it will all seem a little bit pointless, as collections don't matter and a recognition of the material should be enough.
Come second week, or if one is particularly determined, possibly fourth, the old slack routines will creep back into place. Twice-weekly essay crises leading to under-prepared and unstructured final products, points recovered from a vague recollection of A-Level, a conclusion sitting inevitably on the fence for fear of being completely wrong, and a pedestrian introduction opening with a popular quotation.
Finally, towards the end of term, the tutors' collection will spring from nowhere. A source of dread with finals creeping ever closer, as they unfailingly do. The tutors deliver their verdict, with the solemnity of a death sentence: "Matthew began quite soundly. However, this ceased, and he failed to justify any faith in humanity. Will need to do far more next term. Let's set him a collection and see how he does."
And so, there in eighth week, the vow is made: "I shall work over the vacation, and return full of enthusiasm and insight. Next term, I will do myself justice academically."
So there you have it. Essentially we are all weak-willed and fragile. Now, having finished this piece of pure procrastination, I'd best get back to the library, where Kantian Ethics are awaiting me. Perhaps I'll just have a speedy cigarette first.
13th Jan 2005