Ah, January. How I love you and the post-Christmas weirdness you bring. You are nothing if not consistent in the delicate mix of emotions you inspire year after year. A touch of hopefulness for the new year, a spoonful of disappointment for yet ANOTHER year gone by in which I didn’t develop mutant superpowers due to an unfortunate toxic waste accident at a nuclear power plant or similar. And of course, a healthy dose of wildly unrealistic expectations.
Every January I have the following conversation with myself.
“Ooh, it’s January. A brand new year. A blank slate. How exciting. What will we do this year?”
“Ooh, I know! We’ll try something new. And fun. Maybe some kind of SPORT! Yeah! A sport! Maybe we will join a canoeing club or learn archery! Maybe we will buy a red coat and some jodhpurs and start horse riding in Hyde Park! Maybe we will join a female football team and wear knee-high socks and shiny shorts!”
“But Jess… we don’t like sport very much. We don’t have a very good sense of balance or spacial awareness. We frequently trip over.”
“Rubbish! Remember when we were a Nipper, way back in the days of the Dicky Beach Surf Lifesaving Club? Remember how we won every surf carnival? Remember when we were the only girl who would play tackle football with the boys, and would completely exploit this unique position and their innate sense of gentlemanly caution by illegally tackling them around the knees and pushing them over?”
“Yes, I do remember that. It was 16 years ago. We were seven. We were closer to the ground, so falling over didn’t matter very much.”
“Remember nine years of jazz and tap? Remember third place in the 100m sprint at the athletics carnival in grade ten? Remember kickboxing? Remember POISON BALL?!”
“Remember when we fell up the escalator last week?”
“Ooh, maybe we will ROCK CLIMB!”