All The Things I've Given Up On (In Flashback Montage Style)

No one's making New Year's Resolutions this year. So why do I still bother?

New Year’s Eve is my favorite holiday for three reasons. 

Reason 1: It’s the celebration of hope and human life in its purest form. It’s the night we all come together to revel in our survival of yet another orbit around the sun. For religious reasons? No. For cultural reasons? Not really. Why, then? Because staying alive, lasting the year, is no small thing. It’s a big, beautiful, wondrous thing - a thing worth celebrating! And no matter how bleak the future looks, we can’t help ourselves from hoping against hope that our next orbit will be better than the last.

Reason 2: It’s the only holiday that the whole world (save for a few Oceanic Island tribes that remain detached from civilization and would like to keep it that way) celebrates. With this in mind, ringing in the New Year makes me feel connected to all mankind in a very “brotherhood of man” kind of way. 

Reason 3: It is objectively the easiest night of the year to make small talk at a party. On less notable evenings, one might find themselves desperately looking out the window, praying for a freak weather anomaly to take both shape in the sky and hold of the conversation. One might break out into a cold sweat while racking their brain for a more interesting way to say, “Things are good, thanks,” which, by the way, doesn’t exist. But on New Year’s Eve, partygoers arrive armed with what I like to call “seasonal small-talk questions.” These include such classics as, “How were your holidays?” “How long are you in town for?” “Do any traveling recently?” And of course, the ole reliable, “Have you made any New Year's resolutions?” 

This last reason may seem superficial after all the “world peace, one humanity, yada yada yada” stuff, but it’s honestly what secures New Year’s Eve the top spot on my holiday rankings. Because on most occasions, I’m not asking small-talk questions due to a genuine interest in my acquaintance’s answer. For me they serve the same purpose as elevator muzak: filling dead air. But New Year’s Eve is different! It’s one of the only occasions wherein I show an earnest curiosity into the lives of others, which also makes it one of the only occasions I can refer back to when I need to convince myself I’m a good person. Because if I’m such an asshole, then why did I ask everyone to go around in a circle and say what they got for Christmas? See?! I DO care about people! 

I spent this most recent December 31st at my friend Grace’s palatial D.C townhouse where I was met with a large number of unfamiliar faces. But not to worry! I arrived with my mental list of seasonal small-talk questions and instantly fired away like a NBA T-shirt cannon operator on cocaine. My social strategy led to a series of engaging conversations that some might call my best social work to date. Though I’d call it some of my best cultural-investigator field work as well. To someone on the outside, I probably looked like just another girl dazzling her peers. But on the inside? The wheels were turning. You see, I had begun to notice a surprising trend: nearly no one had made any New Year’s Resolutions. And like any true cultural observer, I simply had to know more. I was a young, scrappy detective who couldn’t drop the case even if he wanted to - he was in too deep already. Fortunately, all the investigation required of me was asking a single follow up question. 

“Why no resolutions?” I asked Jason, a friend of mine from high school whose shy nature and towering physical presence is likely what led to the coining of the phrase, “Gentle Giant.” 

“I don’t know…. I just never stick to them!” He said with a heavy sigh, which coming from him inadvertently bowled my petite frame over like a stalk of wheat. 

Another school chum of mine, Hannah, answered similarly. “I’ve just given up on them,” she said, “I never follow through and then I just end up feeling guilty about my lack of follow through. I’m not doing that to myself anymore! Should we do a shot?” 

Hannah poured the shots of vodka while I pondered. I’d never really examined the concept of New Year’s Resolutions before - a large oversight on my behalf. I am, after all, someone who always selects Strongly Disagree when a personality quiz includes the I always finish what I’ve started phrase. I could understand the appeal of Hannah’s mindset once I really thought about it. If you never pick up the towel in the first place, you never have to experience the shame of throwing it in. Like Carrie Bradshaw before me, I couldn’t help but wonder… Is making New Year’s resolutions actually good for me? Or am I just setting myself up for future shame as part of some sadomasochistic Irish-Catholic guilt cycle? 

Before I could answer, a sitcom-style blurriness effect clouded over my vision. A series of images suddenly flashed before me in quick montage form. Images of all the things I had given up on…. 

Squiggly line blurriness effect which signals to the reader that they are now entering my mind…

Image #1: A chess board on a school projector.

The blockbuster film Pirates of the Caribbean hit theaters when I was in the first grade and promptly launched my household into pirate mania. Hoping to add a kind of educational flavor to our growing pirate-themed toy collection, my parents purchased a Pirates of the Caribbean themed chess set and began to teach us the basics. It took me all of one lesson to realize that I wanted to become a chess prodigy. My parents were delighted at the idea of their little girl excelling in an intellectual yet male-dominated field and immediately signed me up for the after-school chess club. But upon walking into the library and coming face to face with a room of fifth grade boys, I suddenly discovered that I had made a terrible mistake. Sure, I liked the idea of becoming a chess prodigy and subsequently being lauded as a kid wonder, but not enough to sit through this! What the hell was this strange teacher with the ponytail and goatee even talking about? I didn’t even like chess as a game that much! I just wanted to be the best at something!

“Keara, can you tell me how many possible moves the black rook can make right now?” Asked the man with the goatee. I glanced at the clock and realized I’d been panic-spiraling for forty-five minutes. “Keara?” He repeated. Mr. Ponytail nee Goatee seemed to determined to make me publicly pay the price of my inattention. “Um… two moves?” I answered. It was a hail mary and everyone knew it. Someone even scoffed. The teacher sighed and shook his head in disappointment, his long black ponytail flopping around behind him and revealing his split ends. “No, Keara. There are seventeen possible moves.” It was at that very moment I decided to give up on chess forever. I left the library and the dreadful man with the bad facial hair and I never looked back. 

Image #2: An instagram account with the username “Kearawritespoems”

This is frankly too embarrassing for me to expound on. Let’s just say this: I went through a poetry phase that produced an extremely short-lived instagram account which has now thankfully been wiped from the internet. Let us speak of it no more. 

Image #3: A brown headband made of shiny plastic 

I have tried to make headbands work for me all my life. I know it’s possible! I see them working on other people’s heads all the time! Friends, family, movie stars, strangers, foes, all of them somehow manage to look fabulous in a headband and it haunts me. Why can’t I pull it off? What’s wrong with my head? I used to look in the mirror, see Megamind staring back at me, and tell myself, I just needed to find the RIGHT headband! I lived in this denial for an embarrassingly long time. But in my sophomore year of college, I finally admitted the hard facts: with a head like mine, there is no RIGHT headband - they’re just fundamentally incompatible with my big, Irish forehead. It turns out that people are right about the truth - it sets you free. I gave up my quest for the perfect headband that very day. And I gave my headband collection to my roommate that very night. 

Image #4: A man with white hair wandering through a cobblestone street.

This image may sound mysterious but unfortunately its backstory is all too simple. The man with white hair? That’s my father. Why is he wandering through a cobblestone street? He got lost… as per usual! But this time around, he’s gotta find his own way back! Because, me? I gave up trying to keep track of him on family vacations long, long ago. It’s futile! My dad is infamous for his ability to stray away from the herd. We lose track of my father so often that the description we use when asking strangers if they’ve seen him, “White hair, blue shirt, looks lost,” has become a long running inside joke. 

I used to think I could solve this issue with a gentle reminder before each outing. But this strategy backfires massively as the one other thing he’s infamous for is doing the opposite of whatever he’s told. He doesn’t do well with authority - it’s the Irish in him. If you say, “Dad, you seriously can’t get lost or wander off this time. Remember we have a dinner reservation,” it only makes him more determined to roam! He’ll just wander off even further! So I’ve given up trying to corral him on vacations. I’ve accepted that he will probably get lost and that a family manhunt will likely ensue. I’m at peace with this now. I’m at peace because I know that sooner or later, he always finds his way back. 

Image #5: Three large doors on a game show stage. 

I cannot for the life of me wrap my head around The Monty Hall Problem. If you’re not familiar with this theoretical math exercise, well, I’m sorry but you’ll just have to look it up for yourself. I can’t even explain its premise without wanting to throw an ax through my door Jack Nicholson style. Because no matter how many times someone explains The Monty Hall Problem to me, no matter how many well-meaning friends use analogies as a way to make it simpler for my pea sized brain, I just don’t get it. And for the safety of doors everywhere, I’ve given up trying. 

Image #6: A box of mushrooms rotting in the fridge

Look, I’ve tried my best to be the kind of person who can utilize all their groceries before they spoil, but I just don’t have that culinary eye! My roommate Jackie is different. She can look at six of the most random ingredients you’ve ever seen, all from different categories of the food pyramid, and whip them into a delicious dinner that makes me say, “Whoa! I’ve been going about the concept of salad all wrong!” I tried to follow Jackie’s example for a few months last year, vowing to let no ingredient go to waste. But the meals made from my leftover ingredients weren’t innovative or delicious like Jackie’s. They were confusing and sad and possibly toxic to the digestive system. I could only stomach three of them before giving up, setting up a refrigerator compost, and calling it a day. 

Image #7: A dictionary

We all go through strange phases when we’re thirteen. My phase, or should I say my obsession,  just happened to be… Eminem. I blasted his albums on my iPod Nano boombox day and night. I had his poster from his Not Afraid era on my wall. I watched all of his music videos, all of his interviews, and of course, the feature film 8 Mile. Somewhere along this media binge I learned that in his childhood, Eminem would read the dictionary religiously because it was the only book his family could afford to own. Many fans, like myself at the time, theorized this to be the reason behind his rap genius. 

With a secret desire to become the next rap superstar but no idea how to break into the game, I announced to my parents that I too would be reading the dictionary - cover to cover! It took me two full days of binge reading to realize I had embarked on a fool’s errand. Fifteen hours of reading in and I hadn’t even made it to letters starting with AD! It would take me a year to get through the A section alone! GAH! 

I slammed the dictionary closed in a fit of pure frustration and left my dreams of hip-hop stardom in between the covers, never to be opened again. 

Image #8: A child-sized saxophone

On the first day of the fourth grade my class was marched to the cafeteria and introduced to the school’s band teacher. I remember him as a stocky man with a thick, blonde mustache who really tried to sell us on the French horn. This was particularly perfect timing for me as earlier that summer I’d gained a keen interest in playing an instrument. My dad had introduced me to Bruce Springsteen and I’d subsequently discovered the coolest man alive: Clarence, renowned saxophone player and beating heart of the E Street Band. I wasn’t sure of much back then but I was sure of this: I wanted to wail on the sax just like Clarence. 

But the band teacher had his OWN agenda. Upon hearing my choice of instrument, he explained, “Your hands are too small for the saxophone. You won’t be able to reach around and actually play the notes. What about clarinet?” I gagged at the thought. You can’t wail on the clarinet! I wanted to WAIL! I’m not sure how I convinced him but the band teacher finally relented and allowed me to pick the saxophone - a mistake on his part since it turned out he was totally right. Playing the saxophone with my doll sized hands was a strenuous effort and wailing on it was physically impossible. The only kid in class who could actually hit a note went under the nickname “Big Owen.” I quit after two months by simply not showing up to band class anymore. I wanted a clean break - it was all just too painful. 

Squiggly line blurriness effect which signals to the reader that we are now exiting my mind…

I snapped back to reality when Hannah thrust an overflowing shot glass into my hand. We clinked ours together as I wondered what my flashback montage was trying to tell me. I lifted the glass to my face and the smell of rubbing alcohol filled my nostrils. I do have a history of not following through on things. I tossed my head back and felt vodka burning a trail down my throat. So why am I still trying? Why do I keep making New Year’s Resolutions? Most of the time I don’t stick to them either! 

Then it hit me. Most of the time. Those were the key words here. Because yes, most of the time, I give up when things are hard. But sometimes I don’t. I haven’t given up on the planner I bought as part of a New Year’s Eve resolution three years ago - I use it religiously to this day. I haven’t given up on my long term goal to become ambidextrous - I’ve been brushing my teeth with my left hand for two years now. I haven’t given up on my “Title of the Day” notes app I started in 2018 - I still give each day its own title before going to sleep at night. 

As the water I was chugging began to soothe the stinging in my throat, the pride of little promises kept began to soothe the sting of my failures. The taste of shame - dry and bitter like vinegar - lifted itself from my tongue. My victories were small, they were few, but they were there. They tasted warm and smelled like vanilla. They felt really, really good.