This month, our girlo is taking stock and manifesting the 2020 she deserves.
I’m typing this from my bed where I’m working from today as I’m ‘on call’. By ‘on call’, I mean I told everyone in the office I’d be online if they needed anything urgent, and then told them if anyone actually mailed me for anything there would be uproar. I have half-crusty Sudocrem on my chin from last night, a chocolate brioche in hand as I stroke my gut like someone carrying a set of twins, and a phone that’s on 99% battery because I am that single.
Today I swore I’d do something productive. Maybe I’d finally set up those TRX ropes I bought three years ago from ALDI and actually attempt to use them. I could hike up to the Hellfire Club and see every fucker from Dublin I can’t stand on the way up and back, or I could wash my hair. I
haven’t done it since last Wednesday but sure fuck it, I’ll get another two days out of it with a bit of talc.
The truth is I don’t intend on getting dressed today. I might have an avocado on toast to convince myself that this one kind of healthy meal is going to cancel out all the cheese, wine, chocolate, cream, custard and every other carb I inhaled over December. And if I don’t have to leave the gaff today, I can just apply more Sudocrem and pray for a miracle.
I spent the last few weeks of the decade much like I spent most of it: drunk, hungover and chasing a bloke who wasn’t for me (he wasn’t bad for me, he just wasn’t for me in general). I knew he would do my tits in after ten minutes, but the thoughts of starting a new decade alone, while all my girlos had someone to grab at midnight for the wear before they turn to me with that look of “Aw, she’s on her own” was just too much to bear. For a few weeks I entertained him until I remembered I have no tits to do in, in the first place.
And while I was having my “What the fuck was I even thinking and how could you even let me go there” rant at my Day Ones, another message from another bloke who has done my tits in many a time over the last few years appeared on my screen. Another one I wasted time on knowing it wasn’t gonna go anywhere, but thinking how nice it would be to have someone to bring to one of the many christenings or weddings on the horizon.
Over the final Silly Season of the Tens, I had a full fuck boy clear out. Deleted from my phonebook, blocked on Whatsapp, removed from Snapchat and unfollowed on Instagram. And without sounding too preachy, I’ve decided I refuse to entertain anyone in the 20s who didn’t deserve me in my twenties.
I don’t know what it is about a new year that makes us forget how much we have achieved over the last 12 months and makes us focus on all the things we haven’t, and makes absolute panic set in thinking it all needs to be done NOW. For now, I have already signed myself up for 20 gym classes – four a week starting this week.
No, I’m not punishing myself for enjoying myself in December, I just miss being able to walk from my hall door to my car without being out of breath! I have my trip to Amsterdam booked for something to look forward to and again will see every fucker from Dublin I can’t stand on the flight over and when I’m clinging on to life on the way back.
I have dodged some serious bullets over the last decade, some by choice and some not. And even though I am starting this one alone, which I never thought would be my choice, I am happy I don’t have someone in my life I have to pretend to like on Instagram and who I want to loaf in real life. Stay stunnin’, Huns.