Be nice to yourself this year, or why a January detox will make you overdo it again next Christmas

I am replete and not in a good way. I’ve been topping up steadily throughout the holidays, and now, the thought of anything without an elasticated waistband feels like a physical discomfort too far. I’ve had so much rest, my body is starting to ache from it. It doesn’t help that I have PMT. So the last hurrah of Christmas has been slurred and bleak midwinter is yet upon us. The annual purge has begun. How depressing.

Perhaps I just have back to work blues. I go in tomorrow, after two lazy weeks off and I’m trying to stay positive. Last year, I took nerry a day off, back loading my vacation to have a jolly Christmas with the kids in the new house; except, by the time it came to it, I was a bit wrung out, necessitating a holiday hibernation so intense I became part of the furniture.

This year, I will be more moderate. I’ve got a week in Feb lined up already, by which time I’ll be in dire need of sun – reflected off the mountains though it will be –  and the exercise I’ll get wobbling about on the slopes in a remote (cheap) French village will more than make up for the last two week’s inertia. Yep, skiing may sound a bit poncy but it’s got to beat four wet days in Disneyland Paris for thrills and expense, is our reasoning. And it negates the need to join a gym.

Last year, the modest poundage that Christmas laid upon me, I attacked with vigour, going on a January coconut cleanse that made me headachey with detox, bitter with resentment, and back into my skinnies within a week. It also, I don’t doubt, contributed to this Christmas’ mega splurge. The fact is, denial serves no purpose other than to make us binge.

I’ve been resolutely anti-abstinence this Christmas, and its effect has been one of relative temperance. In fact, I was so over it by last night I opted out altogther, cosied up under blankets with the Hootenanny in the background and a Donna Tartt tome I’ve been working my way through since my mother sent it over from the States for my birthday. Tom and I ate Chinese food, while the kids ran around in Christmas jammies shrieking,  so I treated myself to second helpings at about 11.00 pm and then promptly fell asleep. The cheery texts from sister Kate and the odd stranger, which I snored through at midnight rang hollow at 8.00 am when I woke to the sound of my still maniacal offspring upstairs, and most who know me best didn’t even bother. Perhaps I have become too much of a curmudgeon?

It’s sad in a way. These events, the turning of the years, meaningless, as they are, should be celebrated, for what else do we have to celebrate? Christmas, birthdays…they may be a reminder that we are a year older and not a jot more successful, but without them we hurtle towards the inevitable without a chance to take stock.

In fact, compared to last year, when I was still fizzing at dawn, a lot has moved on. I may be more hibernatory, but I’ve got a jolly nice nest in which to bed down. Tom completed the last of the painting this week, and I reminded myself that there’s absolutely nothing wrong in taking the time to appreciate, however lazily, the summer’s hard work in moving into and renovating our new house. I can be too hard on myself, and that’s where the trouble starts. If I have one resolution – and I don’t like to set myself up to fail –  it’s to go easy, not just on myself, but on everyone else too.

So I’m easing myself back into the New Year. I’ll probably have a drink or two today – why not? It’s the last day off I’ll have for a while and I’ve found a breakfast half Guinness a more than pleasant way to start the day. And surely I deserve it after last night’s abstinence of all but two glasses of white wine  which is more than an improvement on last year when New Year was celebrated as if it were the last days of Rome following a spartan Christmas ski trip to the Alps. But then, last year, I had a lot more on my mind.

As I look out now onto the beak New Year vista, in a rainlashed East End, it’s clear from this angle that life’s hard, so if you get a chance to stay warm and dry, do it. You’ll be forced out to face the weather soon enough.

So I’ll stay in stretchy leggings for a few more days, but a week back in the saddle will see me right enough without any more drastic measures. It’s winter after all. Take your comforts where you can. And be kind to yourself this year. It’ll make it much easier to be nicer to everyone else.