The Year of the Slug

One evening, shortly after New Year’s Eve,  I arrive at my fitness club only to find that virtually every life cycle, elliptical, treadmill and StairMaster has been commandeered by sweating Lycra clad fitness buffs all sprouting ear buds. There is a long line of people impatiently waiting for  the next open machine extending all the way from the locker room.  A frazzled staff member with a plastic grin tattooed on his face is standing at the head of the line in an attempt to discourage a stampede. I sigh and make my way past the grumbling crowd to the weight machines upstairs, hoping that at least I can get in some stomach crunches.  It’s this way every year. There seems to be a tsunami of people who might have indulged just a little too much during the holidays, then over-compensate by making well-meaning resolutions to get back into shape. By February, the numbers drop off, the gym gets back to normal and the regulars who have been working out all year get it back to themselves again.

 While I applaud the good intentions of those determined souls who are brimming with new resolve, I believe that it goes against our basic instincts as mammals to be so frenetically active during a time when we should be holed up in our caves. Speaking for myself,  I just don’t have it in me to introduce a new habit into my schedule when all I want to do is curl up in front of the fire and snooze with my kitties.  After the holiday frenzy, I normally feel sluggish and unmotivated but  justify my lethargy by making the case that I'm simply giving into a natural inclination.  When I look outside, the backyard  is brown and still  as if nature has hit the pause button until the warm breezes start encouraging growth and productivity again.   I reason that I am a human being, not a human doing and the long cold nights provide me with the perfect excuse to withdraw and just be.

 This is a time to be still-- to cultivate a nurturing internal environment in which the seeds of my dreams can percolate and flourish before beginning to sprout; it is a time to regroup, to replenish,  to reflect on all that has transpired during the last twelve months; the perfect time to spend a  leisurely morning or two in bed watching chickadees at the bird feeder while reading journal entries from years past to track how far I’ve progressed, or to detect any old patterns of behavior that I might want to correct.

 My hat is off to those individuals who ritualize the beginning of the new year with firm resolutions to become their  best and sleekest selves. I bow to anyone who finds the motivation to organize a closet or clean out the basement when I can only seem to find more excuses to put off taking down the Christmas tree.   Call me weird, but I prefer to make my annual resolutions in October, around my birthday, because it is so much easier to make a fresh start at a time of year when I imagine that the warm blue days and flaming autumn colors are applauding my resolve.