January Blues

Well, we’ve now entered that time of year when I start looking for a hole to crawl into and pull it in after me. That time of year I start making questionable health decisions like whether or not to eat an entire meatloaf in a single sitting.

Once DST shuts down, I start looking for reasons to hang in there until the lovely, lovely summer sun winds its way back north of the equator. We’ve got Thanksgiving, which is always a nice trip home and a week giving my eatin’ pants some work. Then the holidays roll around. This year I had a little bet with myself that I could make it through the season without once hearing Wham’s “Last Christmas.” I MADE IT, but I heard Taylor Swift’s version twice, so I’m not sure it was a win.

But after Christmas and New Year’s, I have to dig deep. January is the start of the tennis season in Australia with the first Grand Slam of the year. It’s summer Down Under, so watching hours of professional tennis players sweltering on the hard courts and dodging heat stroke pretty much makes Life Worth Living. I get up around 2 am nightly during the warm-up circuit and willingly sacrifice a few hours of shuteye to revel in the glory that is professional tennis athletes.

New Year’s Resolutions have come and gone, and most of us have already failed fixing the one or two things we hate about ourselves. By "most of us," I mean me. Because I’m an over-achiever, I have at least 23 things I am working on because I grew up in a legalistic church AND have a naturally-occurring genetic tendency to be super-critical of myself. I’m told it’s called “being human,” but pretty sure I have the corner on this affliction.

I have a haircut tomorrow, and this is something that happens every 6-8 weeks because I’m super-diligent about handling my split ends. Every 6-8 weeks I plop down in my stylist’s chair and critically eyeball myself in the full-length mirror while flipping through a bunch of hairstyles I’ve culled off Pinterest that I’m sure will make me 1) glamorous, 2) sexy, 3) professional and yet 4) eminently f*ckable because that’s what every female has been told from birth is what hair should do. And every 6-8 weeks I look at myself and see the same ol' Shasta with the same ol’ muffin top and scraggly chin hairs and wattle and wonder what I’ve been doing with myself for the last 6-8 weeks?

It’s JANUARY. I’ve been eating for a solid 6-8 weeks, if you must know.