Broke Resolutions

Happy New Year, from The Broke Bitch! Though I don’t believe in the efficacy of New Year’s resolutions, if I did, they would be the following:

  1. Dig myself out of my credit card-debt hole with at least a pickaxe (if not a shovel), rather than a pair of chopsticks. Unlikely, because I’m paying out of pocket for at least two destination weddings during peak tourist season this year, an easy grand a pop (Disclaimer: I’m not complaining; an escape to the Caribbean at the frostbitten tail end of a New York winter sounds pretty fab to me!).
  2. Treat my body like a temple rather than an Electric Daisy Carnival venue. The holiday/homecoming foodfest has left me feeling like I swallowed a granite paperweight, and between my boobs and my belly, I can make a saggy-looking smiley face with my torso. ANYWAY. I digress. I am CONVINCED—for completely unknown-and-by-all-rights-invalid reasons—that this is my year to get fit. Already I turned down In N Out as a post-workout meal (because it took me an hour to motivate myself to get to the gym, a cool 4-minute drive away, and when I got there I only had half an hour to work out before they closed), and upon watching a teaser for Wake Up Call with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson (thought it was another Celebrity Fit Club, sadly disappointed), I’m feeling stupid-motivated.

Personal health, like any other investment, requires a hefty helping of sacrifice and commitment. Now, if I was good at either of those things, I wouldn’t have any content for this blog, so this will be a challenge for yours truly.

I am currently on the Whole Foods blog reading tips on how to save money in their store. They will play an integral part in my body-temple overhaul, because I love them, and I love their Nutty Garden smoothie despite the name. They also have a wine club, and I’m all about dat.

I am also committed to slashing my alcohol budget almost completely. If I need to be anything in 2015, it is a miser. No drinks except on special occasions and/or if they’re on someone else’s tab. And no bougie cocktails, what with all that added sugar and impending drunk texts. Luckily for me, my company is a very generous supplier of booze, so this shouldn’t be too difficult.

The clencher: turning down the conch call to party. When someone rings the alarm, I answer. Usually. But that gets expensive, and unforgivable mistakes are often made. Plus, the hangover the next day can only be nursed by the sweet revitalizing powers of a Bloody Mary and greasy Mexican carbs. Neither cost effective nor forgiving to the waistline. BUT HOW?! WHY, Universe, must you keep from me the keys to my salvation?! Oh, that’s right, you don’t. I just personally refuse to recognize ‘moderation’ and ‘discipline’ as “things.”

When you’re in your twenties, and you live in New York City, and you can afford to be social with semi-secure regularity, and you’re single, and you suffer from chronic FOMO, and your parents aren’t within slingshot distance to run home to do your laundry and raid the pantry for free…

I’m going to echo the sentiment of so many fellow addicts and reformed sinners the world over: “This shit is not easy.” The hard work involved in any transformative-slash-180° process needs to be incremental (just me?). Every time I’ve approached the forthcoming year with guns blazing, eyes squeezed shut, and warrior battle cry upward toward the heavens, by Day 4, I’m using my belly as a table top for the pint of Häagen-Dazs ice cream I bought to accompany whatever film I made my sister buy off On-Demand. With a glass of wine. While I’m watching her children. At 10am.

Change is hard, but I want this year to be a good year for change. I want to write about things that actually add value to the world, I want to cartwheel around Brooklyn Bridge Park without throwing my back out, and I want to have all the things, whatever they may be. That’s my ultimate goal for 2015: have. all. the things. To be openly interpreted however the reader so chooses.


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