Last year, I made the fairly niche new year’s resolution to play more badminton. It seemed a fairly safe bet, given that I had recently rediscovered my love for it, and had found a new, regular opponent.
And yet for one reason or another, things didn’t work out as I’d anticipated. My partner in racquet sport picked up an injury, then I had a particularly busy period at work, and we fell out of our nascent habit. I bought racquets for the kids and we’ve had occasional family outings to the sports centre; but it’s not quite the artful, fast-paced game I’d had in mind.
All in all then, yet another new year’s resolution has come and gone, my resolve dissipating as events intervened. It’s something of a pattern really.
Over the years I’ve tried all sorts of things. Sometimes resolutions have been clear, yet broadly defined: get fit. On other occasions, I’ve aimed at the same kind of thing, but without quite such a determined level of ambition: get a bit fitter. And then there are the specific ones, which ultimately seek the same outcome but via a particular means: play more badminton.
Once or twice, the very targeted resolutions have paid off. When we were in our mid-twenties, and had recently moved in together, my wife and I resolved to get good at cooking roasts. Looking back, it seems astonishingly unambitious, and yet we wanted to eat better, and be able to host people at our place, so the ability to roast a chicken had several consequences, not all of them selfish.
Generally, though, I have struggled to see things through, stymied by life’s usual, never-ending business – and by my natural inclination to procrastinate. I might struggle through 20 press-ups on New Year’s Day, and for a few days afterwards, but as soon as I have to get back to the office, I just can’t possibly fit in exercise alongside breakfast, two cups of tea and teeth-cleaning. Meanwhile, attempts to improve my character – be more generous, less shy, more encouraging, less frustrated – have often proved overly aspirational, and too vague.
This litany of failures might easily lead to the conclusion that there is no point bothering with new year’s resolutions at all. Sure enough, there have been several years when I have failed to come up with anything in advance – sometimes deliberately, and occasionally because I simply forgot to consider the matter. Once or twice, I rashly sought to overcome that failure in the fug of a monstrous first of January hangover, by deciding never to drink again. That was a complete non-starter.
When all’s said and done, however, there is something to be said for using the start of a new year to consider how we can live our lives better – even if our resolutions don’t always (or even often) work out quite as we hope. For one thing, it is always worthwhile to recognise one’s own shortcomings. For another, it is rarely unhelpful to bring to the front of our minds the things we know we ought to do but for whatever reason have been putting off or avoiding. Even if some of the particulars get lost along the way, there is usually some gain to be made.
This year, I’ve got a few specific resolutions to make, mostly related to some long-delayed home decorating tasks or to sorting out the garden. I will also resolve finally to sew patches onto the four jumpers that have been unwearable for about two years because they all developed holes in the elbows simultaneously.
I will also endeavour to shout less at my children – unless they really deserve it – and to spend more time listening to them, even when I’m halfway through a TV programme. More broadly, I will aim to buy or consume less unnecessary stuff, whether food, clothes, gadgets or whatever else. And I will be less aloof from my friends, many of whom I’ve barely seen since the pandemic.
And of course, I’ll try again to get a little fitter – perhaps by playing more badminton.
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