By Cherimie Crane Weatherford
As I rise from depths of holiday gluttony, the debauchery of romanticizing Auld Lang Syne and clear the glitter covered everything from the empty spot our Christmas tree once stood, I realize the time has come to face routine, schedule and absence of pumpkin spice with trepidation and acceptance.
January is full of hope, potential and reflection, offering reprieve from unfulfilled dreams, unattained goals and under used exercise equipment. The air is crisp, the desks are organized and refrigerators welcome unfamiliar greens nestled alongside something that resembles the latest cure for carb indulgence. For most, it is a magical time of possibility, forgiveness and liver recovery.
My social media is a rolodex of change and a platform for self-help. It is the one time of the year where everyone so clearly sees the error of their ways. Maybe it is the predictability of it all or my innate determination to do that which I am not supposed to do, I simply refuse to resolute. It isn’t that I fancy my obvious flaws or ignore my impressive variety of short comings. Daily I am well aware of the height of my imperfection and the depths of my deficiency; however, dwelling on it is likely to do nothing but inspire empty bottles of Merlot.
Having known myself for quite some time, it’s understood that my ways are as set as the frizz in my hair. No amount of thoughtful journaling, resentful running, or eating leaves coated carefully in the latest health promoting protein powder will sway my harrowingly honed behaviors. I attempted a resolution once and it resulted in living in a foreign country that required women to tinkle in a trough. It was then I accepted my exclusion from the enlightened few and my fate of being exactly who I am, flaws and all.
There is a quiet peace found in refuting resolution. No need to dread surrender, no guilt for doing the things I have always done, the way I will always do them. Maybe it is motherhood, maybe it is age or maybe it is lack of energy to declare perfection in all facets of my existence. No one went to prison, less than five wine glasses were broken and my favorite jeans still fit, mostly.
Not everyone is cut out for the New Year, New You mantra; some of us have accepted the fact that we are ok with being ok. Perfection is neither in my color wheel nor in my genetics. Therefore I approach 2016 ready to face the similar challenges, similar inner battles and all too similar frizzy hair that has become the cornerstone of my imperfection. If by some twist of fate or wrinkle in time, I fare better than years past I will be enthusiastically thankful, if not, I will be ok at least I don’t have to tinkle in a trough. Happy New Year Ya’ll.