It’s week two of January. Undoubtedly the worst month of the year. I had 11 days off over Christmas (the true perk of working on a monthly publication) and the first seven days of the year slipped by without too much pain, but week two has cracked me in the jaw as hard as Mohammed Ali and I’m just not feeling it to be quite frank.
It could be the sleep deprivation. It could be the work overload as we try and fit a month’s worth of content producing into a fortnight, and a magazine imminently going to press (the true hell of having 11 days off over Christmas on account of working on a monthly publication). Or it could be the fact I’m surrounded by miserable people deciding that this miserable 30 days (New Years day doesn’t count, it’s basically still December) are the best 30 days of the year to deprive yourself of carbs, alcohol and the sofa.
PRO TIP- you’re so wrong. it’s the shittiest month of the year. Cut yourself a little slack?
It’s dark, it’s cold and it’s generally always bloody raining. I get serious PFSD (Post- festive sadness disorder) as I mourn the days just passed when my only responsibility was to finish off the Milk Tray and the leftover cheese from Christmas.
I’m making the case for comfort food in January. For chicken hotpots made from the contents of your fridge and freezer, topped with crispy sliced potatoes. For steaming hot bowls of soup, eaten slightly too hot, with chunks of bread (gluten and all) to soak up at least half of it. For a glass of red wine on the sofa when it’s pissing down with rain and dark by the time you walk out of the office, and torrential and pitch black by the time you get home. For hot treacle sponges with cream (and no I’m not judging the people who buy them, on occasion, in little plastic tubs from M&S at the train station, because that person, is shamelessly me).
I’m making the case for looking after yourself, not punishing yourself. All power to you if you start finally using that gym membership you’ve been paying for since last January, and if you would rather skip the gin and sip a ‘Seedlip-and-slimline-tonic please’ instead, I’m not judging, but I won’t be joining you. I’ll be eating Easter eggs, and hot cross buns (hazards of the job). I’ll be drinking magnums of rose on the slopes. I’ll be tucking into a few beef stews, plenty of tartiflette and bowlfuls of pasta.
And I won’t feel guilty about any of it.
Nobody likes a vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, sober, gym-bunny, skinny bitch anyway.